Jacquerie
by screening
Summary: SYOT. The seventy-sixth Hunger Games arrive, ushered in by an uneventful Quell. But greater forces are at work than the entertainers of the Games, and greater problems are about to unfold. "And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird, That made the breeze to blow."
1. Cartographer of Blood

The map beneath him, cracked and yellowed, was one of the few he owned that was of old Panem. Dating would place it before the war, before the uprising; according to analysis, not so long after the Great Crisis itself. It was, were he to give it a semantic meaning, a beacon of monumental change in ancient history, hundreds of years old. He stood there observing it where it sat beneath protective glass, one finger trailing across the surface.

He left prints on the glass, but did not clean them. They rested above the Capitol.

The Great Crisis had shaped the country- quite literally, and quite devastatingly. The map had been produced before mass production had been given a chance to resurge in the country, and as such it was roughly made, poor quality paper and no colouration attempted on its surface. Nevertheless, it had a beauty about it- the hand-drawn surface layered geographical and physical landmarks with mechanical precision. The map itself covered an odd approximation of landmarks, as if it had been traced initially and then corrected long after. The image of the country it showed was far different to the country he knew now- the Great Crisis had shaped it drastically, as could be seen in the manner so much of the landmasses had been erased after redrawing the lines. A line cut between some parts of Panem- in soft pencil markings on the edge someone had written "US" on one side and "Canada" on the other. Ancient countries, long since lost in history and crisis. New countries risen, new cities from the ashes of old.

The map was only a hundred and fifty years old and yet it harkened back to an age nobody was left to tell of. He tilted his head down to the map in careful respect to his forebears. What they saw, what they lived through- even from the vague and confused history they had left to them, he knew what they had been through was devastating. And yet- and yet. They stood up. They rebuilt. They recreated.

It was admirable.

"President Snow?"

He straightened, dropped his hand from the map as an aide stepped blinking into the gloom of the hall. "You are wanted on set in five minutes."

"Tell them I will be on set now."

The aide inclined his head in respect and withdrew. Snow gave a final sweeping glance to the neatly arranged artefacts in the hall. He spared a glance towards a small device in the center of the floorspace, scorched metal twisting in the clinical spotlights above it.

President Snow was not the type to feel fear. But the metal device, on its small plinth; that could incite fear. Not in him, never him, but he had seen too much not to understand what it meant, for him and by extension others.

He left the room without sparing a further look towards the artefacts within it. Looking back kept you in perpetual introspection, and he was not one for introspection when his country required more overt leadership.

He made his way to the set, which by his command was clean and soberly dressed; the antithesis of what the Capitol typically enjoyed in a city of excess, but Snow did not always bow to their demands when it did not suit. Tonight he addressed Panem as a whole and it was of imperative importance the appearance he put forward was of power and not opulent politicism. He was a leader and he would appear as one.

Tracks were set up in crossing patterns over the floor of the set, and multiple cameras were being set up to move in automatically, programmed to zoom and pan as Snow moved. He stood there in silence, waiting for the room to center to him and its inhabitants to follow suit. The room remained buzzing and busy momentarily, but an aide made a quick motion to the team and silence fell like fog on flames. Cameras tilted and panned to him with automatic precision.

"Well." He began to walk across the room, short and purposeful strides, taking satisfaction in the way he was the focal point of the gaze of the room; the fulcrum they all turned upon. He sat on the white-painted chair in the center of the white-painted set, and imperceptibly shifted for the pleasure of watching every camera refocus at his unspoken command.

"Shall we begin?"

A small LCD screen counted down from five. The camera team quietly set themselves up behind control panels and monitors and readied themselves. Snow remained still, aware he was in the correct position.

The numbers came to zero and a small red light flickered on each of the cameras. Orchestral music filtered from a monitor- Snow could make out from it the projected seal of Panem fading to his face. He inclined his head and began.

"Good evening, citizens of Panem. It is my personal duty and pleasure to announce to you all the seventy-sixth annual Hunger Games."

* * *

><p><em>Hello all, and welcome to my own little attempt at an SYOT. Now, I know there's typically two issues to a story of this genre; the matter of too many characters becoming an issue to portray equally without boring all other readers, and the matter of an SYOT's nature making it impossible to create a plot beyond its most simplistic nature.<em>

_I've endeavoured to fix that._

_I've already created a plot; while flexible in nature, it's ready for putting in place. And while there will be 24 tributes, I'll be self-generating most and killing them off. I'll be writing the most I believe I can write and you can read comfortably; as such, I'll be taking eight characters in total. These eight characters will be six tributes and two Capitolians. Feel free to submit as many tributes you wish, of any district; similarly, if you wish to have your Capitolian have a job, a senior position, or just a typical socialite, that's your choice. I'll pick those I think are the best characters, and then they'll be inserted into the plot as they best fit._

_May the odds be ever in your favour, future character creators. I'll try to treat them well. But a word to the wise- this may not spin out as is expected of SYOTs. In what is to come, your character may need something different from the typical to survive._

_Good luck._

* * *

><p>SUBMISSION FORMS<p>

TRIBUTE SUBMISSION FORM

(NOTE: Please submit through PM. Guest review submissions are tolerated but may not be seen as easily and thus are less likely to be chosen)

Full Name:

Age:

District Preferences(First choice is taken into account but the others are in case of the unlikely event that district has already been chosen):

Gender:

Appearance(Please be detailed):

Family Members:

Backstory:

Personality(The more detailed the better):

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Why would this tribute win the Hunger Games:

Why would this tribute die in the Hunger Games:

Is this tribute likely to make alliances? And with what kind of person/people?:

Would you be open to having your tribute in a relationship:

What is the tribute's opinion of the Capitol?:

* * *

><p>CAPITOLIAN SUBMISSION FORM<p>

(NOTE: Please submit through PM. Guest review submissions are tolerated but may not be seen as easily and thus are less likely to be chosen)

Full Name(Please note that Greek and Roman-oriented names are more likely to

found in the Capitol):

Age:

Gender:

Occupation:

Personality(Please be detailed):

Appearance(Please be detailed, and feel free to go wild on this- Capitolians are extravagant to say the least):

Their opinion of Hunger Games and Districts:


	2. Glass and Steel

At first, she hadn't realised this is what she had always wanted.

Sure, she loved the games. She did, she loved them- there was nobody more informed than her on the subject, and her friends went to her if they ever needed to know the latest theories and suspected arenas. She loved the games.

But being a part of them? That had never occurred to her until now.

Sisyphia's mouth was dry as she made her way through the wide paved streets of the Inner City, making only cursory greetings and kisses to those she passed. Every reflective surface had become her tool for anxious checks and re-checks of her hair, her makeup, her clothes. Every re-check confirmed the same thing- curling pink hair offset with lime green contacts, a tulle skirt and bodice to match the colours. Her nails had been perfectly re-done at her morning nail clinic, and she had styled them gold to match the curling tattoos on her fingers.

She flicked another glance at a gambling emporium's window, squinting past the lights inside to make out her appearance in the glass. Her image was distorted by the glitzy lights, and she gave up and moved on, picking up her walking pace incrementally as she rounded the corner to see the Games Headquarters courtyard.

Only a few hundred metres from City Square, the Games Headquarters courtyard was the central focal point for the creation of the games; a busy courtyard of black granite with inlayed brushed steel to form the seal of Panem.

On the left of the courtyard, a primarily steel building with no windows, inlaid with lines of lights glowing from its surface. The Creation Centre was the technical powerhouse, the home of the gamemakers.

On the right, a building resplendent with lights shining from its mostly glass walls formed the City Studio, home to Caesar Flickerman's shows and the bulk of the Games' televisual output. Already people were gathering for Flickerman's first official Games show- on any other year, Sisyphia would be there with them. Instead, she walked on, across the seal of Panem, to the Training Center.

Backing onto City Square and the Headquarters courtyard, the Training Center was the jewel in the crown of both; a towering skyscraper above the Capitol, shining glass and matte steel in sharp relief. It was the pride and joy of the Capitol, and it was Sisyphia's destination.

As she walked to its theshold, nigh-imperceptible flickering lasers scanned her irises. A soft tone sounded above, and the wide doors to the Centre slid open. Candy-coloured and lace-decorated, Sisyphia crossed the boundary from observer to participant.

A young man at a desk looked up at Sisyphia's arrival. He minimally raised an eyebrow at the candy-coloured woman in the foyer.

"Escort interviews, right?"

"That's right, yes- ah, Sisyphia-"

"Yeah. I know." The man returned his gaze to his computer screen. "Take the elevator to floor five, first door on the right."

Sisyphia was not one for unnecessary anger, but she wasn't one for being ignored, and made absolutely sure the man knew her presence by flouncing to the elevator, tulle skirt bouncing at her steps.

She made her way to the fifth floor, and came to the first door on the right; unassuming, soberly set within the corridor.

Sisphyia took a deep breath, opened it and stepped through.

Then looked down at the void beneath her feet.

Screaming, she immediately jumped back across the doorway, staring down at the void she had stepped into. When her adrenaline left her, it was clear it was only farce- a crystal clear glass floor showed the way down to the ground.

And at the other end of the room with the glass floor was set the interview table.

Sisyphia bit her lip. The terror of walking across a glass floor five stories up in a skyscraper made her want to give up, to go back down to the man at the desk and demand another room for her interview. But she had come this far, and Sisyphia was not one to give up so soon. With a tiny squeak of fear, she slowly and carefully made her way across the glass room, sinking into the chair like her life depended on it.

In front of her, opposite the door she had entered, three men entered the room. She stood up hastily, only slightly swaying with the nausea of looking below, to greet the men as they sat opposite her.

"Sisyphia Maurice," she greeted them with the admiration she felt the men deserved. "I'm here for-"

"-The escort interviews, we know," replied the first man, sitting down without being asked. "Lexus Valerian. I'm the head of the Technological Innovation Commission for the Capitol, but this year I'm the new tech head for the Games."

"Oh, I _know_," Sisyphia gushed. "You've been Panem's Most Eligible Bachelor for three years running."

Lexus winked with glittering blue eyes, pushing up his spiky silver-dyed hair. "Don't need to tell me that, babe. A little birdie's told me I'm in the shortlist for year four."

The man next to him smiled with overt professionalism, one sculpted blue eyebrow raising. "And which little birdie is that?"

Lexus returned the raised eyebrow. "None you can afford, Flickerman."

At that, Caesar Flickerman casted a quick glance at Sisyphia, and his perennial smile dropped a tiny increment. He was about to speak when the final man in the room spoke up.

"If we can return to the matter at hand?" He smiled and offered a hand to Sisyphia. "I'm Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker. I understand you've been interested in escorting our tributes?"

* * *

><p>As Sisyphia tentatively left across the glass floor, the three man waited for her to leave in silence. The door shuts with a soft click, and Lexus sprung from his seat, loosening his tie and walking in aimless circles across the glass floor.<p>

"If we have another interview, I'm going to quit," Lexus groaned, stretching out his arms. "I have too much work and too many pretty fans to be doing this shit."

Flickerman remained seated, looking through a slim manila file. "Blow-up dolls don't count, Valerian."

Lexus turns, a cocky smile on his face. "And you'd know, _Flickerman_?"

Flickerman returned with his trademark professional smile. "Well, I'm always hoping to learn from the expert. Tell me, do you use your engineering prowess for the dolls, or do you actually do any work around here that utilises your talents?"

Lexus waved his hand boredly. "A little of column A, a little of... designing the entire arena and everything in it." He faced Flickerman head-on. "Other than looking pretty for the camera, what do you actually do around here, Caesar?"

"Mask your incompetence?"

Lexus made a sudden violent motion towards Caesar, but before he could move any further towards him Seneca Crane stood up. The mediating force suddenly making itself known in a senior position, Lexus stopped still.

"Let's not get off-subject here, okay?" Seneca asked, rounding the table and plucking the file from Flickerman's hands. "What did you think of her?"

Lexus shrugged. "Pretty girl- a bit airheaded."

Flickerman raised an eyebrow again. "As if that's ever been an issue."

Crane shook his head. "She went across the glass floor without much trouble; she seems like a good candidate."

Lexus nodded. "Determined, I'll give her that."

Flickerman sighed. "There's not all that much competition, and none of them showed as much willingness to go across the floor. I think Maurice is the one." The concession surprised the other two men in the room, but went without comment.

"She's the girl?" Lexus questioned.

Seneca gave a final look at the file. "She's the girl."

The men nodded and left the room, crystal glass leaving no trace they were there.

* * *

><p><em>Sisyphia Maurice is the creation of Anna Blake- with thanks to them.<em>

_One Capitolian space has been filled, with one remaining- many tribute spots are also available. Good luck to anyone sending tributes or Capitolians._


	3. TEMPORARY: POTENTIAL APPLICANT LISTINGS

**TRIBUTE LISTINGS**:

1. Elizabeth Adews- District 7- submitted by AbbyCoraby123

2. Odyssea "Emma" Kjaergaard- District 4- submitted by akuhilangditelanbumi

3. Glace Gratton- District 1- submitted by MsAir

4. Cesal Nesbin- District 8- submitted by GoldenfeatherKyru

5. Quint Barkwater- District 6- submitted by Glassgift

6. Emil Reynolds- District 12- submitted by Regster

7. Theon Veux- District 2- submitted by SeungriPanda98

**CAPITOLIAN LISTINGS:**

1. Sisyphia Maurice- Tribute Escort- submitted by Anna Blake

2. Alexander "Alec" Taupe- submitted by Gerry

_With thanks to all those that have submitted tributes and Capitolians to Jacquerie. As ever, thank you for your consideration._


	4. The Gold Price

From the confines of his warm bed, Alec heard a soft chiming sound.

He groaned, rolling over and pawing at his pillow. He pulled it up and over his head, sulking under the cocoon of heat he had created for himself.

"Wha' ti' 's'it?" He mumbled through cotton and stuffing.

Next to him, a man rolled over and snuggled up next to him.

"Y'know, I think I'm one of the few people that could have understood that." He said, smug tone audible even through a wall of pillow. Alec made a frustrated noise and feebly kicked him.

"Alright, alright," the man conceded. "Ten-forty."

The chiming of the alarm suddenly seemed much louder, and Alec yanked the pillow off his head, stretched like a cat and finally sat up.

"Ten-forty?" He moaned. "Missed the alarm by-"

"-Yeah, yeah, forty minutes, if that thing was alive it'd probably be pissed." The man sat up next to Alec, stretching similarly. "You looked adorable sleeping, though."

Alec couldn't bring it in himself to be annoyed at that excuse. "We're late for work," he offered as a last-ditch attempt to rationalise matters.

The man laughed, grabbed Alec by the torso and pulled him back down into the bed. "Who cares? We _own_ work. 'Sides, it's Games season; everyone's too busy partying to notice."

Alec winced. "Don't remind me."

"Seriously, what's the issue you have with the Games? I never got that. It's like the biggest profit-spinner of the year for us."

Alec frowned, holding his tongue loosely between his teeth in thought.

"-Have you ever wondered why we still do the Games?"

The man frowned. "It's a symbol."

"Killing kids is a symbol?"

A short silence passed, and the man sat up, prompting Alec to do the same.

"This is a way too heavy subject for the morning," he decided, waving his hands in a circular motion. The soft chiming ceased, and the french windows of the apartment flicked up the time and ambient temperature of the Capitol in glowing blue text.

"Agreed." Alec stood up out of the bed. "A much better subject? Why you let us sleep in, _Gany_."

"_Gany_?" The man said in mock horror, crossing the room to the dresser cabinet. "Just because you shorten your name atrociously doesn't mean I do, _Alexander."_

"Oh, I'm sorry, _Ganymede_," Alec punctuated, leaning over him to snatch a button-up from the rack. "Maybe I prefer something more _snappy_."

"Judging by your outfit, that's the first and only time you've preferred it," Ganymede shot back.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ganymede pulled at Alec's shirt slightly. "That's navy blue."

"And?"

"Your hair is bright red, and you're wearing a navy blue shirt."

Alec dragged a hand through his tangled hair and looked around absently for a hairband. "Not against the law."

"It should be, I'm going to the President now."

"I hate you."

"You love it."

The two men glanced at one another, before leaning in to share a kiss. Alec closed his eyes, closing the gap between them and putting a hand on Ganymede's hip.

Ganymede pulled back suddenly, a mischevious grin on his face as he hastily left the room. "Bacon or hash browns for breakfast?"

Alec stood in mild shock where he had been suddenly abandoned in the middle of a kiss. "Fuck you, _Gany_!"

"Love you too, _Alexander_!" Came the muted call from the kitchen.

Alec rolled his eyes fondly and turned away, grabbing up a blood-red tuxedo from the dresser.

* * *

><p>Their workplace was located on the edge of the Outer Circle, on the same block as the Valerian Tower; thankfully, they lived in the Valerian Tower, so their commute of the day was little more than an elevator ride and a few minutes' walk.<p>

"Aren't you boiling in that?" Ganymede questioned, giving a glance at the tuxedo Alec was wearing.

"Yeah, but I look good in it." Alec replied, flicking through notifications on an intranet screen. "You'd do the same thing if you could pull it off."

"I do every night." Ganymede replied with an arched eyebrow. Alec noncommitally punched Ganymede's arm in response, jamming his screen in his pocket and yanking a keycard from it instead. He put it against a reader on a doorframe, a soft chiming sounded, and Alec opened the door to the building.

"Hi-hi! Alec! Gany!"

"Ganymede," Ganymede corrected under his breath as a brightly dressed woman bustled up to them.

"Are you open?" The woman asked pointedly to the door. Alec wished he hadn't opened it so soon.

"-Yes, of course, come in, Sisyphia," Alec replied, "We were just-"

The woman was already in the building.

"-Opening. Up." Alec made a face at Ganymede, who returned it as the two of them followed the woman into the building.

"Hi, Sisyphia," Alec groaned, moving his hand up and to the right to activate the lights. A soft glowing of blue text on the television screens, a hum from some light arrays, and suddenly the place was lit.

The bar, while small and lowly lit, was considered one of the top locations for the Capitol's rich and famous. Decorated with rich purples and maroons, the interior was lavishly attired and fit for any occasion; while typically they were a high-profile night bar for those with money and fame to be seen, they were known to hire out their premises to those with more money than sense- typically governmental high-ups looking to celebrate their takings at a gambling emporium.

Right now, however, their sole inhabitant was Sisyphia Maurice, a gossip-mongerer they actively tried to avoid and often failed at; she lived at a building nearby and loved to harass their clients.

"Sisyphia?" She giggled. "Please, Alec, just call me Sisy."

Alec wondered what he had done today to warrant this recompense. "Look, _Sisy_, Games season starts tonight and this is a big money-driver for us, even if you don't really understand that sort of thing. So while I'd love to listen to you trying to get details of our clients out of Ganymede, we're a little too busy." Alec pointed to the door. "Perhaps another time?"

Sisyphia looked affronted. "Really, now, Alexander!" Her tone suddenly became more playful. "Is that any way to speak to a tribute escort?"

Ganymede paused from where he was unpacking a crate. "-What, really?"

Sisyphia bounced on the balls of her toes, her tulle skirt bouncing with her. "I just got the call! I'm the new tribute escort for-" she winced slightly. "-Well, District 7, but I'm sure it's the start of many promotions!"

Alec couldn't help but feel some excitement from the performance Sisyphia was giving. "-Wow, Sisy, well done."

"So!" She announced, carefully arranging her hair as she approached Alec. "I expect I'll be going in a few days, but I want not to be shut out by your security when I arrive to celebrate tonight with my fellow escorts!"

She kept coming closer, and while Alec wasn't one to shy away from a woman telegraphing her interest so clearly, he didn't have much interest in it with her.

"And," she said with a voice ladled in sugar, "I expect to see_ you_ tonight, Alexander."

A long and distinctly uncomfortable moment of eye contact passed. Then, Sisyphia giggled, twirled her tulle skirt, and left the building with a clack of her candy-pink heels.

Ganymede made a gagging sound.

"Can't wait to see her pink lace covered in sawdust," Ganymede muttered, bringing out a collection of brightly-coloured bottles from a crate.

"She's going to be hilarious." Alec snorted and shut the door, swiping his keycard against it to ensure it remained shut. "Now, how's the delivery?"

"Short," Ganymede said, picking up a few final bottles from the crate. "About twenty short on soma."

Alec groaned. "Of all nights for them to mess up the order. I'll head down and put in a new one." Alec picked up his keycard again. "Anything else you need?"

Ganymede smiled, crossing the bar to close the distance between them. He planted a chaste kiss on Alec's lips.

"Don't get dead 'till next I see you, as ever."

Alec rolled his eyes. "I'll make an effort. Don't burn down the bar in my absence."

"Where'd I put the matches?"

Alec laughed and left the bar, smiling softly at the morning sun. The days were getting shorter, and it would be cold soon, but for now Alec could enjoy the sunlight.

* * *

><p>The walk down to the train station took him across to the dam and down through the Outer Circle to the train station. While he could just put orders into the Capitol Depot, and had in the past been advised to do so, Alec had always preferred the walk to the station itself. It was warm, and the trains were a comforting reminder of infrastructure- that behind the neverending party and social power play, something was there to support it all, to keep it going.<p>

He nodded at a guard he had established a rapport with, walked through the empty sunlit halls of the station. He knew he would have to cease doing this during the height of Games season; during then, access to the station was limited not only by guards but by adoring Games fans looking for the first glimpse of the year's tributes.

Alec had never seen the appeal.

To his luck, a train had pulled in only minutes before- gold-painted with silver lines running across it, it was a District 1 transport train. But no stock manager had made himself available on arrival; no neatly kept man in orange work clothes with a clipboard and weary look. Alec tapped his thigh anxiously, looking for him- he couldn't see him.

Alec made his way down the concourse to one of the District 6 workers, checking the pressure levels on some pipes.

"Hello," Alec said nervously, unconsciously keeping a trained distance from the district worker. "Where is the stock manager for this train?"

The worker paused a moment, before turning his head just slightly. His eyes widened incrementally, and he stood from his crouch, turning fully to face Alec. He took in Alec. Alec did the same.

_He's so thin_, was the first thought that went through his head. The man- boy- h_ow old was he?_- was tall, but even then was terrifyingly lean, almost to a point of malnourishment. And _dirty_- not just in the sense of being unkempt and unwashed, which Alec had seen enough paraded through his bar. This boy was quite literally dirty, with smudges of oil across his face, staining his work clothes.

Alec didn't know how to react.

And, it seemed, neither did the boy.

"I, uh." Alec took a half-step back. "Where is the stock manager. For this train?"

The boy narrowed his eyes slightly. "We don't have one. Low staff this run."

Alec nodded absently, tapping his thigh slightly faster.

"I, uh- my last delivery was understocked. If- if I was to-" Alec searched in his pockets, pulling out a coin. "Can you put in an order for twenty bottles of soma for me?" He held out the coin.

The boy regarded him and then the coin coolly. He took it, inspected it. He looked back up at Alec.

"How much is this- for you?" He questioned. Alec was unsettled by the lack of emotion in the boy's voice.

"Uh- ten credit coins?"

"Hm." The boy looked back at the coin, arching an eyebrow. He seemed almost angry. "Capitolians."

"-So, you'll do it?"

The boy pocketed the coin. "Yeah. Twenty soma bottles. I'll get them."

The boy turns away without further response. Alec, unsettled at the exchange that had just taken place, adjusted his shirtcuffs and anxiously stood there, unsure how to progress.

He couldn't stop staring at how thin the boy was.

"-How old are you?"

The boy gave a faint grunt of confusion, before half-turning from his work. "What?"

"How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?" From the boy's thin features and unkempt hair, even his height wasn't enough to persuade Alec he was any older.

The boy almost, to Alec's trained eye, seemed reluctant to answer. But a flick of his eyes to Alec's blood-red tuxedo and he relented. "Eighteen."

"Eighteen-" he hadn't the size to be eighteen, he was too scrawny for eighteen. Alec felt his stomach turn unpleasantly, and he fished in his pockets again.

"Look- here." Alec held out three more of the coins. "I just- uh."

The action almost embarassed him in its undertaking, but Alec had no intention of retracting his hand until the coins were taken. The boy once more regarded him coolly, before suspiciously taking the coins from his hand.

This time, he nodded reluctantly before returning to his work.

And this time, Alec swallowed and left.

And he couldn't help but feel a strange, suspended pride at the exchange.

* * *

><p><em>Alexander 'Alec' Taupe was submitted by Gerry- with thanks to them for the submission.<em>

_With tribute chapters about to get underway and the plot about to begin proper, I would like to thank all who have submitted so far and remind everyone that there is still a slot available for a final tribute. However, if you feel that you have a Capitolian or tribute you want to submit, I'm not above taking late entries during the story if I feel they fit into the plot._

_Thank you all for reading thus far._


	5. The Iron Price

_With thanks to MsAir, Glassgift, and akuhilangditelanbumi for their reviews of the previous chapter._

* * *

><p>The hum of machinery under his feet was a pattern he knew well, and it faded from his mind with the ease of having made the journey a thousand times before.<p>

But this time, four gold coins weighed down his pocket.

The Capitolian called them "ten credit coins" each. As if that was a minimal amount. As if it was an insignificant thing to give.

In scrap value alone, a single coin could get him enough food for a month. Four coins was an excess of wealth he never saw in his hands, and it had been just the change in that Capitolian's pockets.

The disparity made him want to throw the arrangement in the Capitolian's face. Twenty soma bottles? He knew what soma was, he had seen it delivered to the Capitol so many times. It was a product of District 1, a luxury good for the Capitol only. It was a pale pink liquid, designed to make the drinker throw up so they could eat more food.

He feels the golden coins in his pocket. He has been paid to help encourage the sale of a drink that just throws food up so the Capitol can have more.

He wasn't stupid enough to throw the coins from the train's window, but he certainly wanted to.

And he wasn't stupid enough to break the arrangement with the Capitolian, but he certainly wanted to do that as well.

As much as he despised the concept, with a safe delivery more money might enter his hands. And while he wasn't typically one for handouts, especially from the hands of a Capitolian, he could recognise an easy means of money when he saw one. And he wasn't one to give up easy money.

So, rationalising it to himself as a transaction rather than a handout, Quint found a crate of soma in the train's storage hold, transferred twenty bottles to another container, and labelled it for delivery. Hopefully nobody would notice. He didn't have time to get back to District 1 for more stores, as the train was heading back to District 6 in preparation for Reaping day.

He shuddered despite himself, despite knowing the odds of being chosen. In a District as big as his, the odds were minimal. His District was almost six hundred thousand strong, and those of Reaping age were twenty thousand strong. While he had taken a great number of tesserae in the past, so had many others of his age- his was a few slips in a draw that numbered tens of thousands. He had no chance of being picked. He was safe.

As safe as anybody else was. He shuddered again.

"Hey! Barkwater!"

Quint turned around. A large man with close-cropped hair stood at the doorway to the carriage.

"Problem in the driver's carriage. Deal with it."

Quint nodded and picked up his toolbox, leaving past the man. The conductor on his assigned delivery team was a man of few words and short temper, and commanded an odd amount of respect from him. It could be the imposing figure he cut, or the fact that in any crisis he was level-headed.

It could be that he saw a vast amount of himself in the largely emotionless man's countenance.

The train was short, and the driver's carriage was only a five minute walk away. Quint knocked on the door, waited the requisite amount of time, then upon no response entered.

The driver was on the iron floor. Her pupils, despite the relative darkness of the cabin, were contracted to little more than a pinhead.

Quint put down his toolbox, expression passive as he crouched down beside the driver. A check of her pulse revealed her life still going; a hand on her mouth revealed her lungs still working.

Quint pursed his lips, just slightly. When he had been told of a problem in the driver's carriage he did not want the problem to be the driver. He was a mechanic.

But regrettably, a mechanic with experience in dealing with drug-addicted individuals.

He stood; rolled his shoulders, tried to cast thoughts of his sole surviving family member from his mind. This is a job he had been sent to deal with, like any other, and people are merely machinery of a more complex creation. Quint began work.

A quick sweep found a used needle and a small collection of others; they were each stamped with the seal of District 1. Quint threw them all from the train's window without a second thought to their use. The driver moaned weakly from her place on the floor, reaching out limply to the control panel. At first Quint considered that this might be a wish to regain control of the train, but he realised soon after that her true intention; the control panel of the train was alive with lights, and to a Morphling addict it must seem beautiful.

Sometimes, Quint wondered if it was a nicer life to stay under. So many of his district did it.

He was in the midst of ensuring she had no head injuries when he heard a soft, wet sound from the driver. He looked at her and realised she was choking. Setting his jaw, he plunged two fingers down her throat, clearing it of what he discovered to be vomit. He grimaced, the action grotesque and reminiscent of many other actions like it.

Finally, when she was breathing easily again, he rolled her on her side, checked the course of the train to ensure they were on autopilot to District 6, then wiped off his fingers on her jacket and walked away.

He had little interest in ensuring the driver's wellbeing beyond what he had been instructed to do. She was nobody he knew.

* * *

><p>Arrival in District 6 was welcome after several days of watching the driver detox painfully from Morphling. Quint stepped off the train without further comment to his colleagues, going through the security checks as he always did; a Peacekeeper patted him down, two more with guns held towards him waited for a command, or evidence of theft or smuggling.<p>

Four gold coins were held securely underneath his tongue.

He passed the checks without any alarm raised, recieved his food quotas, and Quint walked on through the streets of District 6.

Given the nomadic nature of great numbers of its inhabitants, District 6, despite its population, always seemed empty. The streets were quiet, thickly so. One or two were always lying in the streets blankly, eyes pinpricked, needles hanging loosely from their arm.

Quint cared little for those that lay in the streets, but always checked them in hopes not to see a familiar face amongst them.

An apartment building stood, one amongst many, hunched in the streets as if waiting to die. Quint pushed open the door; no keys required in a place wracked with drug addiction and nomadic lifestyle. He climbed the creaking staircase, walked the corridor caked in filth, knocked and then opened a door on the left.

"Grandfather?"

At an old table, an older man looked up, eyes lined with age and weariness. His yellowed and sallow skin gave him a frail countenance- but the smile he gave upon seeing Quint overshadowed that.

"Quint." He stood, weak figure shaking as he pushed himself up with the table. He started to falter, and Quint rushed forward to support him, helping him back into his chair.

A pause in stagnant air that smelt of oil. The two embrace.

Quint does not know if he can keep abandoning him for so long.

If he was reaped, he is not sure how long his grandfather could remain, even with the four golden coins.

If he was reaped, he is not sure how long he would remain, and golden coins would not help him against the ones that had given them.

* * *

><p><em>Quint Barkwater was submitted by Glassgift- with thanks to them.<em>

_All tributes and Capitolians have now been taken, and no more are required; however, if you feel you have a character that deserves attention, I am not above adding more._

_Thank you for reading thus far, and I hope to see you all soon__._


	6. Glass and Stone

_With thanks to Glassgift, AbbyCoraby123 and akuhilangditelanbumi for their reviews of the previous chapter._

* * *

><p>Young children, thin and frail, stood in the streets waiting for kindness. Their clothes were ragged and caked in mud, but there was no gentle hand to lead them to a washbasin. Their stomachs were empty, but there was no generosity to be shared; a district that deals in masonry could not eat rock, and handouts in return for products were all the children could hope for from the Capitol. But there were no handouts for those without the figures to earn them that food.<p>

The children went hungry in the cooling summer streets of District 2.

Three children, unrelated but bonded in their mutual hunger, sat together in the dawn with outstretched hands. People would pass them by- some quickly with averted eyes, some slowly with trained disinterest in the ground. They had nothing to spare; any of them. Three children sat with outstretched hands that were empty, their eyes dulled by hunger and thirst, the monotony of their existence.

Abruptly, a large cloth sack crashed onto the paved ground in front of the children. All three stared open-mouthed and glassy-eyed at the sack, before one who could be no older than four stood to inspect the sack more closely. Upon the discovery of food inside, he did not hesitate to inform his compatriots- he settled instead for tearing a hunk of bread from a loaf and jamming it into his mouth. The others caught on soon enough, and soon all three were crouched by the sack, eating the bread and drinking the water that was contained within.

They did not pause to look up at their saviour, and he did not care. He walked away, footsteps echoing on stone flags.

His hand went to his pocket, taking out a small metal box. He paused on the path, against the thinning flow of the masonry workers going to their jobs. He flipped open the box, taking a thin sheet of paper and a small wad of what appeared to be dried grasses. He put the grasses in the paper, rolled it against the box to form a thin cylinder, then flipped the box closed again and put the cigarette in his mouth. Bringing out a match, he leant against one of the many chunks of granite lying in the winding mountain streets, ducking out of the morning wind as he struck the match against the granite and lit the cigarette.

Standing straight again, Theon Veux watched the match burn to the tips of his fingers, then flicked it away before it could scorch him. He

observed the glowing red embers of the match on the rocky ground, before blowing out smoke pensively into the pale golden sky. His breath fogged with the smoke; it was late summer, but in a mountainous region the cold was hardly unexpected.

"_Hey_!"

Theon toyed with ignoring the voice a moment, before grudgingly turning to address it. Higher up the winding mountain path, a young man with a neck built of corded muscle stood staring at him. Theon took his time removing the cigarette from his mouth.

"Yeah?" He replied, keeping a relaxed tone to his voice in an effort to infuriate him.

"Where've you been?!"

Theon shrugged, unwilling to respond and disinterested in either telling the truth or making up an excuse. The man looked like he wanted to throw one of the head-sized rocks littering the path, and he looked as if he could without issue.

"Get to the center. Now, Veux." A thumping of footsteps and Theon was alone again in the sunrise.

Theon pulled the cigarette from his mouth and held it to the sky for a moment, inspecting the meagre glow of red embers against the pale gradient of blue and gold.

Presently he felt cold air wash against his jacket, and he replaced the cigarette in his mouth and walked up the mountain.

The Training Center had, technically, no real affiliation with the Capitol or the Games. They permitted financial support for a parental figure, in return for taking the child for training in martial arts, weaponry training and emotional retraining- technically, they were not endorsed by District 2 or the Capitol.

Technically, District 2 also did not supply Peacekeepers for the state.

_It's strange_, Theon mused_, how common these_ _technicalities are_.

The Training Center was set into the mountainside, glass walls against stone. The single path to its pane glass doors was half a metre wide, and on either side was thirty metres from the ground. After seven years of treading the path, Theon had become adept at it. He looked up to the glass walls, made quick eye contact with half a dozen of the girls training within, winked, then cartwheeled effortlessly across the thin stone path.

That's when a large hand gripped him by the lapels of his jacket and tipped him sideways, and Theon found himself held over the edge of the mountainside by a large man of exceptional height and width.

"Veux." The name was forced out with a rarely-used voice, more breath than sound. A thin scar wound across his throat, and despite best efforts the Capitol never truly fixed the damage done by his opposing tributes.

"You...showboat." The man breathed. Theon was forced an inch further back, and he fought for purchase on the small ledge of stone he had left. "You... are _funny_."

Theon attempted a weak smile. "You really think so, Bartner? 'Cause I have some good jokes I can-"

Theon was cut off by losing almost all purchase on the ground; he was forced back across the edge, tilted back so far he was at the mercy of the man holding his jacket.

"Being funny...won't help you...with a knife-" Bartner held Theon effortlessly with one hand, and placed the other at Theon's throat. "Here."

Theon nodded weakly, aware assent was now his only choice at the mercy of this man. "You're right."

Bartner stared impassively at Theon with pale blue eyes. For one terrible moment, Theon wondered if he was about to discover the fate of so many that had gone against the will of the Training Center instructors. They had no shortage of waiting applicants.

"Bartner."

The training instructor looked around, then promptly yanked Theon back onto solid ground, standing to attention at the sight of the man in white kevlar armour.

"I do not appreciate seeing my son held over a precipice, Bartner."

Bartner nodded sharply. The Peacekeeper took one short step forward onto the thin path.

"You are a Victor. You know that I, of all people, appreciate that. But if I see you mishandle Theon again... Accidents happen, Bartner, and an autumn landslide is not an unusual matter. Do you understand me?"

Bartner nodded again, breaths a little shorter.

"Leave us."

Bartner left, and Theon was left alone outside the glass walls of the Training Centre with a tall man in white armour.

"Theon." His voice was impassive.

"Father." His voice was equally impassive.

"I did not place you here for you to abuse your position."

Theon's fingers twitched. "Yes, father."

The Peacekeeper wrinkled his nose slightly. "And you are smoking again. The practice will hinder your chances of success in the arena."

"And how would you know?" Theon muttered under his breath.

"_What did you just say?_"

"Nothing, father."

The Peacekeeper took a short step forward, blue eyes sharp as they bored into Theon's brown ones.

"Do not forget who put you here, Theon, and do not forget where you came from." Theon was tall, but he was taller, and when the Peacekeeper came to stand opposite him he towered over Theon with silent ease.

"You are from the streets, child." Theon felt his cigarette start to burn his lips, but he could not move to take it. "Do not presume I cannot return you to them. Or return you to your street rat siblings. _Remember Arya_?"

The cigarette burns Theon, falls from his mouth.

"Yes," he manages. "Yes, father."

The Peacekeeper stands closer, eyes burning holes in Theon's. "Train properly. Enter the games. _Win _the games. That is your purpose. That is your creation. Do not presume to act differently."

Glass may be clearer than stone, but backed against them both, they felt equally as cold. Theon could not tell the difference between them both.

"Yes, father." He murmured.

The Peacekeeper returned his helmet to his head, drew his baton. Theon made an urgent noise before it can be raised, and flicked his eyes to the glass walls of the Training Center. They were being watched.

The Peacekeeper paused. He returned his baton to his belt. With a final lingering gaze, he left.

Theon is still there.

He reaches for his cigarettes.

* * *

><p><em>Theon Veux was submitted by SeungriPanda98- with thanks to them.<em>


	7. Rising Sun

_With thanks to Glassgift and Katrace for their reviews of the last chapter._

* * *

><p>The cool of the water settled her, flowed in time with the blood in her veins. Her eyes were shut to avoid the salt water, but when she felt a wash of current that had not been there before, she opened them.<p>

A boat sped by her on a rusting propellor, made of more driftwood than anything else; it could only be termed a boat loosely. She watched it lower a net to the seabed, dragging it across the ground and pushing up clouds of dust in its wake.

She watched seven fish dragged against the back of the net. Her lungs burned.

Three strong kicks to the surface, and Emma Kjaergaard burst into the bright sky, breathing in the cool air rolling over the water's surface. The sun was rising in the sky, the water warming- Emma felt her chestnut hair heat at the sensation of the sun on her head.

She swam to a pebbled shore, rising from the water to walk onto drier ground. Unwinding a length of cord from around her wrist, she wound it instead around wet hair, tying it in a loose ponytail.

"Hey, Odyssea!" Emma did not turn around- she didn't respond to that name anymore.

"No, wait, uh- what's the name- Ermintrude?" She didn't respond to her middle name either. "Uh- shortened- Emma!"

Emma breathed out a short sigh. She turned, a smile pulled onto her features forcibly.

"Hey, Ralph," she said as the middle-aged man puffed up to her. "How's business?"

Ralph grinned, reflexively stroking his large, dark brown beard. "Booming, kid. It's Games season! More Peacekeepers means more customers."

Emma nodded vaguely. "Well, if you don't mind, it's the weekend, so I'm helping my dad toda-"

"That's fine, I'll walk with you. The restaurant won't miss me for a few moments."

Emma gritted a smile out. "Sure, Ralph." She slung her dry pack over her shoulders, and started to set a fast pace through Fishery Zone 7. Ralph followed her on more unsteady feet.

"So, I was wondering-"

"Yeah?"

"Your marriage to my boy-"

"What about it, Ralph?"

"I was thinking of doing it after Reaping. Make it a big one, celebrate us all being here together, joined as a family." Ralph cut himself off for a moment, gasping for air as he tried to keep to Emma's pace. Emma did not interrupt him this time- she didn't particularly want to get into the conversation.

"You good with that?"

_You're asking my opinion on this shit now? _Emma mused.

"Sure, Ralph."

Emma dodged into the merchant warehouse, moving expertly through the stalls and wares. Behind her, she heard heavy footfall and clattering- she didn't look back.

"Hey- _Emma_!"

She heaved a larger sigh, turning and waiting for Ralph to catch up. He placed heavy hands on her shoulders.

"I know you're worried about marrying Harry."

_What was your first clue?_

"But you're young, and you'll understand when you're older. I mean, you're what- sixteen?"

"Fifteen."

"You'll understand when you're a bit older, kid. It's just the way."

_The way._ Emma hated it when people said that.

"Gotcha, Ralph." Emma pulled free of his hands, turning to continue through the merchant warehouse.

* * *

><p>The District 4 Training Center was, according to the Peacekeepers she heard frequenting the restaurant, no match for the ones in Districts 1 and 2. District 2 had placed theirs in a complex of caves, that faced the skies around them with glass walls; District 1's Training Center <em>shone<em>, with every surface inside rippling in stones that glowed in the night. By comparison, District 4 was a rusty shack.

In Emma's opinion, looks didn't matter. She had seen her parents take the Training Center to new heights and new victors; what it looked like wouldn't save them in the Games.

It was huge, an entire block taken up by an old warehouse that had since been repurposed. Its outside was the same as it had been when it was abandoned, but its interior was vastly different.

Concrete walls held racks of weaponry, old and new- the training floor at the entrance was an open floor, easy to evacuate in case the Peacekeepers ever rescinded their non-aggression pact with the technically illegal practice. Concrete floor was covered by meagre rubber mats; Emma had asked her father once why they were there if they provided no padding from the floor. His response was that they were easier to clean.

The sounds of exertion filled the room as Emma creaked open the door. The training recruits were using ranged weapons against melee weapons; an exercise she had seen often, and participated in almost as much as the recruits.

Her brother Andreas was amongst them, holding a trident with ease as he swung it- too high, as the recruit ducked under the swing and went under his defences, holding his knife to Andreas' throat.

Silence fell in the training room. Eyes fell on Andreas and the recruit.

Finally, slowly, a tall man with greying brown hair turned to observe the frozen recruits.

"Andreas."

"...Dad." Andreas flicked his eyes between his father and the knife at his throat.

"_Instructor_." The tall man said with a stern tone that turned out less stern than intended. His chin raised a tiny fraction. "Ronan, at ease."

The recruit raised his eyebrow slightly. "But I have him at my mercy."

"Ronan. At ease."

The recruit paused a moment longer, but smoothly retreated back, knife returned carefully to his side. Andreas stumbled upright, rubbing his neck sheepishly. A quiet, violent murmur came from the rest of the recruits. Andreas was known to be one of the clumsier recruits to stand in the center, and rumours abounded that he was only permitted by virtue of his father's leadership within its walls.

"Odyssea."

Emma looked up sharply at her father, who gestured to Ronan carefully.

"Show them how disarming with a ranged weapon is done."

Emma nodded swiftly, eyes alight with excitement at the challenge. Swiftly making a pick from the weapons rack, she opted for a sword instead of a trident, then stood opposite Ronan, swaying gently, holding the sword firmly in one hand. The weight felt familiar.

Without further provocation, Ronan gave a tight nod to Emma then struck, knife swinging in muscled arms. Emma sidestepped and swung the sword with ease, pulling it above Ronan's head and prompting him to go low, move the knife towards a major artery in her thigh, as expected. Emma immediately matched him, kicking him away, sinking down and bringing the sword down to the ground. The knife flew from Ronan's fingers and Emma swiftly picked it up before rising, stepping and pivoting, raising the sword. Before Ronan could move, which was quickly, Emma had laid the sword on the back of his neck.

The recruits froze again.

Then, a soft laugh elicited itself from the tall, greying instructor.

"Very good, Odyssea; very good! At ease, the two of you." Emma retracted her sword, and the two split apart. Hesitantly, Ronan nodded at her, a faint respectful smile on his face. Emma nodded back, surprised at the tentative respect she was recieving.

Her father walked between them; placed a hand on Ronan's shoulder. "A good thing you won't have to face her in the arena, or she'd have you down before the first day!"

Emma knew it was a compliment, but something about it made her want to raise the sword again.

"Now, back to the exercise- but this time, Andreas, remember how to use your weapon!"

Andreas shook his head lightly, springing into action against a recruit. Emma stood at a loss as her father walked past her, towards the man standing at the door. The two embraced.

"Ralph!"

"Dirk." They separated, equal smiles on each other's face. Ralph slapped Dirk's back.

"How's training? Not long 'till the Games, you know!"

Dirk laughed, looking back at the steadily training recruits. "They're shaky, but they'll pull through."

"Odds on your son, though!"

Dirk grinned at the compliment to his family, but his eyes were slightly hollow. "We'll see on Reaping day- depends who volunteers first, you know that."

"Oh, sure," Ralph grinned, not sure at all. "Anyway, I actually came to discuss your other kiddy."

"Odyssea?"

_Emma_, she thought. Her fingers tightened on the sword.

"Yeah, I just told her- I was thinking of making the wedding after the Reaping. A celebration, you know. Does that sound good to you?"

"Yeah."

_No. _Emma noticed her knuckles turning white on the sword, and loosened her grip.

Dirk turned to look at Emma, and swung his arm across her shoulders. "And then our families will be together, properly."

Emma did not respond. Dirk's face changed, just slightly.

"Harry's a lovely boy-" _A man, he's eighteen, he's too old-_ "-And you'll be a lovely wife. You'll be happy together-" _-No, you'll be happy-_ "-And we'll be together."

_No we won't._

Emma grits her teeth and smiles. The sword is still in her hand.

* * *

><p><em>Odyssea "Emma" Kjaergaard was submitted by akuhilangditelanbumi- with thanks to them.<em>

_As ever, thank you for reading thus far._


	8. Setting Sun

A knife hummed in her hand, flowing with her movements. The glint of the silvery blade flickered in the low light of the walls, shone and reflected across polished glowing stone. The knife, poised in her hand a moment more, shivered and sent ripples of silver light to chase the deep blue that permeated the room.

The light stilled, and then cavalcades of silver filled the room in gilded glow, chasing itself through the long corridored walls.

A low thud. A knife shivered in a foam target.

"Glace?"

In the fading blue light, Glace could just make out a figure- male, slim- entering the room. Her hands went automatically to the next knife. Above them, with an automated click, blue lamps came on overhead.

"What are you doing here? All the main lights are off." The lamp, as if sensing his words, flicked off again. The walls still glowed with blue light, a shadow of what had been.

Silver flickered across the polished stones that covered the wall. A second knife joined the first with a muted thud.

"Glace- Glace, what are you doing?"

She paused. The knife in her hands shivered, before returning to her belt. Glace rearranged her loosening hair back into a tight bun, then looked up to them consider the man standing in front of her. The lamps overhead flicked on again to charge the glowing stones.

"It's the Reaping tomorrow."

With no further explanation percieved to be important to her, she pulled a knife from her belt with lithe movements. The lamp clicked off overhead, and deep blue light chased mercurial silver. A third knife embedded itself in the foam.

"Glace, I-"

The man sat down, leaned against the uneven wall of stone. Shards of silver glinted on his face as a fourth knife whistled through the long room.

"Glace." He murmured, voice breaking. His hair was strawberry blonde, shot through more recently with grey. "I- we- please don't do this."

Glace did not respond; she only tilted her head, with muscles trained to move with elegant precision. She picked a fifth knife from her belt. She inspected the blade for its edge, and spoke with a careful voice, edged with calm.

"I have been training for the Games. What else would I do but volunteer?"

"But you're- hon, you're- so small, you're so small, you're-" his voice cracked. "You're our little baby, Glace, please-"

The fifth knife came so close to his face he was startled from his speech. Its deviation from the course meant that it spun into the wall rather than connect with the target, lying on the ground next to it with the edge blunted.

"Don't be concerned, Dad." Glace said, with entire awareness that he should be concerned. "I've trained for this. I'm ready."

He shook his head weakly. "If this is about Rhys-"

The sixth knife went far enough into the foam to drive part of the handle into it as well.

"This is _not_ about Rhys." Glace's typically calm demeanour turned to furious, fearful shaking, a tone so clipped that it could break.

Then she returned to the final knife in her belt, trailing her fingers along it before drawing it with automatic precision. She poised it in her hands.

"He failed." Her voice had not entirely regained its previous impassive tone. "I will not."

"You- but-"

"-_I will not fail_."

Failed and despondent, he left the room. Glace held the knife thoughtfully in her hand. The ultraviolet lamp flicked on overhead, and shards of silver light hit the black tiles beneath her, the stones beside.

They glowed subtly, casting conflicting shadows on a pallid face. She stared at the blade in her hand.

She wanted to stop. She wanted to sit down and never move again. She wanted- She-

She wanted Rhys back.

She tilted her head with elegant precision again. Want did not create action.

The seventh knife hit home in the center and stayed there.

It only shivered slightly.

* * *

><p><em>Glace Gratton was submitted by MsAir- with thanks to them.<em>

_As ever, thank you for reading thus far._


	9. Walk the Walk

He emerged from sleep groggy, but he was used to that now; even comforted by it. He slowly regained consciousness, flexing his right hand until the motion was grounded and solid.

Experimentally, he lifted his left hand above his resting head. Slowly, he flexed it.

The index finger moved without issue. The ring and little fingers had more limited motion, and couldn't bend all the way into the curve of his palm.

What was left of his middle finger moved without issue.

It had been called a "mild" accident at the mills- young boys put their hands in the machines all the time, and most emerged with far less than he had lost. He had been given the virtue of a good doctor- the rumours abounded that he wasn't originally from District 8, an ex-Capitolian; living low in a tiny shack, away from Peacekeeper view.

Cesal didn't care. He was just happy the guy had the knowledge of nerve reattachment to give him two of three severed fingers back.

Rising from bed, Cesal picked up a black strip of cloth and wrapped it around his left wrist, tying it on with his right. He put on a shirt, fighting with the buttons in an unending battle. He changed trousers into his work clothes, jammed on his heavily and repeatedly repaired boots, and put a grimy grey flat cap over tousled brown hair.

He flicked a glance to the mirror standing in the corner of the tiny room. A young man with crooked nose and hazel eyes glanced back. He smiled.

The smile did not drop when he turned away.

Blatantly ignoring his parents and large swathe of siblings, he snatched up his work satchel, picked up a flatbread covered in flax seeds from the table, and whipped through the door.

Cutch Hassan was already at the door.

"You're kidding." Cesal groaned, ripping into the flatbread. "That bad?" He managed through a mouthful of bread.

"Worse, my dear, darling friend." The black band on Cutch's arm flapped as he clapped a hand on Cesal's shoulder.

"You just called me darling, this is bad." Cesal flashed Cutch a smile between bites of flatbread.

"The Weavermen won't do it."

"Ohhhhh-" Cesal threw his arms up in the air. Cutch grabbed the uplifted flatbread and tore a piece from it. "Why is it when we try to be civil with a gang, they turn us down?"

"Probably because we're a gang."

"A civil one!"

"-Cesal-"

"-No, Hassan, _no_, you can't ask this from me, _Cutch_-"

"-I need you to talk with the Soiled Hand."

Cesal took back his flatbread, perennial bright smile no longer holding the similar glint behind his eyes.

"No, Cutch."

"I know your hangups about them, but-"

"_Hangups_?" Cesal almost dropped his flatbread. "Cutch, you- they- what they did to Dane-"

"Was unspeakable. I know. I know, Cesal." A large hand clapped his shoulder again, and he found himself staring up into Cutch's sympathetic face. "But they won't speak to me, and I need you to do this. They might listen to you, Ces. They might just do it."

"So some guys we like more than those guys don't put their drugs guys on our turf?"

Cutch looked at Cesal out of the corner of his eye. "Remind me again what we do for a living?"

Cesal grinned, flicking his eyes to some Peacekeepers that passed- their helmets revealed little, but their heads moved to observe the black strips of cloth tied around their wrists and arms. "Textile workers, Hassan, obviously- which begs the question, why aren't we going there?" The two of them had walked past the factory already, and Cutch wasn't slowing down.

Cutch frowned down at Cesal. "Sometimes I wonder how you work for me and not the other way around."

"Thanks, doll-"

"This is not one of those times."

"So- why aren't we going to work again? This a Black Band thing?"

"Not everything revolves around the gang, Cesal."

"Remind me what we do again-"

"It's _Reaping day,_ Ces."

Cesal stopped short. Cutch stopped with him.

"-What?" He managed weakly.

"It's Reaping day."

Cesal stared blankly at his flatbread. He hadn't even said anything to his family this morning.

"Ces?"

"Hm?" He flicked his eyes up.

"You good?"

"I- yeah, it's good." Cesal smiled, bit into his flatbread.

He tried not to think about what was to come.

* * *

><p>"Cesal Nesbin."<p>

The Peacekeeper ticked a box. Cesal reluctantly placed his finger in the inkpad and registered his fingerprints, his Reaping registration card now almost full. Two more years and he was out of the Reaping.

Carmina was only just starting her second year. Cochin started the Reaping today.

He would jump in front of any one of them. They just didn't know it.

Hopefully they would never have to know.

Cutch smiled weakly, pulling Cesal into a half-embrace as the two walked to the age 16 partition.

"We'll be fine, Ces. I might be your superior in the Black Bands, but don't think for a second I won't jump in for you. We're together in this."

"Hassan, if you jump in for me, I'll make sure that I'll kill you before the Capitol can try."

"You? I'm pretty sure Madden can get in faster for his best gang guy jumping in front of his markedly less authoritative, obviously less handsome, loser second in command."

"Fuck off, Hassan."

"Love you too, Nesbin."

The two friends grinned at each other, however shakily, before standing at the front of the pen of sixteen year old males.

A Capitolian, dolled up and terrifyingly dressed, came onto the stage with more fervour than any person has any right to have on a day like this. Cesal wasn't a big anti-Capitol guy, especially not when Peacekeepers routinely turned a blind guy to his work, but he could never give any respect to them; especially on Reaping day.

His little brother was crying in the front.

Words were spoken and videos shown. The Capitolian walked to the first bowl, filled to overflowing with slips.

"The female tribute for the seventy-sixth annual Hunger Games is- Resta Hurst!"

Not his sister. Not his sister. Cesal breathes a sigh of relief despite the screaming little girl dragged by Peacekeepers to the stage.

"And the male tribute is- Cutch Hassan!"

Cesal suddenly finds he cannot breathe. Cutch is staring at the ground. Cesal goes out to grab him but he is already moving, to the front, to the stage.

Cutch has no big brothers to take the fall. He has no chivalrous family to help him.

Except one.

Cesal does not even think about the stupid thing he is about to do.

_"I volunteer as tribute!"_

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><p><em>Cesal Nesbin was submitted by Goldenfeatherkyru- with thanks to them.<em>

_While I have no intent to set up review incentives, as I believe it is your choice to review or not at your leisure, I would appreciate any feedback you may have. :) Thank you for reading this far, as ever._


	10. ὅρκος

_With thanks to Regster, Glassgift, AbbyCoraby123, MsAir, and akuhilangditelanbumi. It was lovely to recieve so many reviews; thank you for them. :)_

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><p>A large basket held loosely in one hand, he walked through the morning air in quiet solitude.<p>

Miners were already at work, but the merchants had not yet set up their wares, so this window of time, where the sun wavered in the sky as if uncertain to rise, was his favoured time to gather plants.

Nobody was around to harass him.

Kneeling at a small patch of seemingly wild grasses, Emil deftly plucked a few shoots of meadowsweet, lying them flat in the basket. Crossing through the streets to another patch, he picked up a thin awl and dug into the ground, pulling out a small collection of pale vegetables. The parsnips went in the basket with the meadowsweet, and Emil continued.

The movements were nigh-mechanical after so long doing them. Emil turned his head swiftly, ensuring he was as alone as he thought, then ducked under a gap in the District fence, pulling his basket after him.

Many people disregard the trees; their medical power, their ability to create more than they are.

He pulled bark from the aspen tree, pulled some from the willow. A few bunches of Oregon grapes found their way to the basket.

Emil collected flora and fauna both from the forests, collecting ferns and tree bark and mushrooms and all the plants he knew to have qualities he needed.

He liked plants. Plants were uncomplicated.

As he returned through the fence, the sun had decided upon rising and sat large and yellow in the sky, like a portent of an omen yet to be realised.

Today was the Reaping, and Emil held his basket a little tighter than usual. People had risen now, but the streets were still silent.

"Hey, Emil."

Emil grit his teeth slightly. He stopped as a boy his age came to stand opposite him.

"Hi, Dietmar." A hand was on his shoulder. He didn't want it there.

"Got anything for me?"

"I- not yet."

Dietmar's hand gripped a little tighter on Emil's shoulder.

"Not yet?"

Supplies had been short, and he could only take so much before his mother got suspicious, but Emil knew Dietmar wouldn't take that as an answer.

"Production is a long process, and yeast takes a while to culture- it-"

"I need some tonight, Emil." Dietmar always had a placating smile, and it terrified Emil. "You know what day it is today, right?"

"Yes." Emil murmured, shifting one foot subtly backwards in an effort to escape Dietmar's grasp.

"Yeah?" Dietmar matched Emil and then some, coming uncomfortably close. Emil's grasp on his basket became tighter. "Well, if I don't get Reaped tonight, I need to celebrate that. I need to- I need to celebrate that. You get me?"

"Yes." Emil cannot produce alcohol that fast. He does not know how he will twist matters to fix the problem.

"Or I'll tell your parents about your little gathering habits. Going outside the fences still?"

Emil's face drained of blood. He had not been as alone as he thought this morning.

"I'll figure something out." Emil replied, this time carefully moving back to break the hold. He walked away quickly, mind racing to deliver him a solution.

The air was starting to buzz, and Emil could see goods being passed with small slips in return- betting was in full swing already, on the child to be reaped, their age, whether they'd cry.

He slipped past the betting miners and the anxious children that were their focus. One more year and he would graduate from one to the other, and he could not wait to make the transition.

Emil walked into a warehouse that had degraded to little more than a shack- on the outside, it was abandoned, but within a black market of wares and goods circulated. The typical movements of the merchants and customers had increased today to a cacophony of sound, clattering of pans and discussions of inhabitants.

It wasn't what he was used to- he wasn't altogether sure he liked it.

His mother had set up her stall at the corner of the warehouse; close enough to evacuate quickly, far away enough to ensure she wouldn't be caught up in any initial entrance by Peacekeepers.

Extra precautions were always taken on Reaping- Peacekeepers typically turned a blind eye to illegal practices of a benign or economic nature, but during moments that cameras might focus on their work they endeavoured to keep everything clean.

Like Emil, his mother had the look of a merchant- blond haired and blue eyed, albeit lacking the tight curl of his own hair.

She looked up and smiled.

"Emil. Shouldn't you be getting to the registrations? And- oh, you're all dirty." She leaned across the table of medicines and dried herbs, brushing flecks of soil from Emil's shirt. He bit his lip slightly, aware he must have done it when he went under the district fence.

His mother was lenient in many things, but never in matters of Emil's safety. If she knew he went under the fence to fetch some of the indredients she needed-

Emil smiled with no hint of worry in his face. He was practised at it.

"Don't worry, mom, I'll be along soon- just a few things before I go."

She picked up the basket in his hands; inspected the contents. She rattled off their uses with an ease that never failed to impress Emil's curious nature.

"Well, I always need more aspen bark for painkillers, and the Oregon grapes are good for yeast production-" she paused. "Do we need anything for yeast production?"

Damn. He was so far gone on his problems with Dietmar he had forgotten to shift the more incriminating produce.

"Heard the price is going up on bread," he lied with a casual nature he had learned to use in perfect synchronicity with his silver tongue. "If we can make some of our own yeast, we can rely on Capitol grain if it gets too expensive."

"Capitol grain." His mother's voice was not dismissive or impressed, but mulled over matters with an interested tone. Interest was always the tone he hoped to elicit from her.

She nodded carefully, without clear commitment to either side of the plan. "I see. Well, in any case-"

She picked up a small copper bottle no bigger than his palm, stoppered with cork. She handed it to him- a quick tap to its surface confirmed it was empty inside, and Emil looked up questioningly at her.

"I'm going to be busy after the Reaping, so could you get some honey from the yard?"

Hives always proliferated in the wildflower garden Emil's mother had cultivated outside her house. Their honey was sweet, and when money ran low for medicine production they could always rely on it to turn over revenue.

"Will do." Emil smiled; he pocketed the bottle in his thin cotton jacket and went out into the summer sun again, feeling the metal warm against his side.

His smile faded as the cameras came into view; they were portents of nothing good.

Emil believed in portents more than he would admit.

He was one of the first to arrive and one of the first to be searched after the copper bulge in his jacket was noted- after putting his silver tongue to good use in both placating and complimenting the Peacekeeper, the copper bottle was hesitantly returned to him, and he stood in the pen for the age-seventeens, ready for fate to assign him as it would.

Fate assigned a slim waif of a girl first, who looked more ready for death's door than fighting. Emil watched her trudge with dull eyes to the stage, stand in ironic horror next to an overweight man whose makeup gave him the same eyes.

The Capitolian pulled a slip of paper from the bowl. Quiet horror descended on the crowd he stood in.

"-Emil Reynolds!"

His first thought is that he no longer has to worry about Dietmar's alcohol for tonight.

His second thought is how yellow the sun is in the sky.

His third thought is for the screams of his mother he hears behind him.

* * *

><p><em>Emil Reynolds was submitted by Regster- with thanks to them.<em>

_The final tribute's chapter will be revealed tomorrow. With that, all seven submitted tributes will be revealed, and we will be almost halfway through reaping._

_The sun is still yellow in the sky. We have only just begun._


	11. Two Witnesses

"Lizzie?"

"Noel, how many times- it's Elizabeth! You're not five anymore, you can pronounce my full name."

"Lizzie?" This time, his tone was clearly amused.

She sighed, pulling her long hair behind her and letting it weigh itself down on her back. She could tie it back, but District 7 was cold in the early mornings, even in late summer. She dragged out her answer.

"-Yes, my annoying dearest little brother?"

"Why are we here?"

Elizabeth smiled at her brother wryly, before jumping up on a tree log and turning to face him.

"Good question, Noel- when a man and a woman are really happy together-"

"-Ew! Lizzie, no!"

"You asked, Noel."

"You're a terrible big sister." He jumped up on the log to join her, and she jumped off and lead the way through the forest.

"I'm a brilliant big sister."

"You still haven't told me why we're here, though."

"Damn! My brilliant ruse to take you off-track didn't work?"

"What does ruse mean?"

"Aaalright, okay. You know what day it is today?"

"I'm not stupid, sis."

"Well; on today there's a lot of security in Forestry Zone 7, because that's where the Justice Square is and that's where the Reaping's done."

"And?"

"And, that means there's very _little_ security in Forestry Zone 6, hence us being here."

"And walking here."

"Was that a complaint, Noel? I think that was a complaint."

The young boy shook his head as he stumbled to keep up with her long strides.

"Course not!" His tone suggested a different opinion.

"Course not." She shook her head softly. "Look, I didn't really want to do this today either, but a friend asked me to, and I can't leave you at school today so-"

"Is this the same 'friend' that got you almost killed last month?"

"I wasn't almost killed, I was just a little too close to that forest fire-"

"Is it the same 'friend'?"

Elizabeth paused, looking upwards at the oak trees that towered above them both. In the chill of the morning, her breath just about fogged up and dissipated into the air above her.

"You're too clever for your own good, l'il bro, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Yes."

Something emerged in them both that was painful. The cold air shot daggers into her lungs.

Their mother had told him that. Only a few years ago.

Their father still used it mockingly when he was drunk and angry and grieving.

She had almost forgotten.

"Hey! 'Lizabeth!"

The call was a welcome interruption to her memories. She pivoted in the midst of the forest, watching a young man jog up to them both. He smiled to see Elizabeth, but frowned on seeing her small shadow.

"What's with the kid?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Hi to you too, Chal."

Chal pulled his coat closer around him and sighed. "Will I get an explanation if I ask?"

"No."

"Alright, okay- don't let him touch this shit, whatever you do." He flicked his gaze to Noel. "Ya hear that? Don't put your kiddy hands on this shit."

"Kiddy?" Noel said incredulously. "You're Lizzie's age!"

Elizabeth started walking with Chal at her side, Noel behind them trying to keep up.

"Which is a year away from adulthood, Noel," Elizabeth admonished with little force behind her tone.

"-Lizzie?" Chal questioned with a tiny, vaguely smitten smile in Elizabeth's direction.

"It's Elizabeth." She corrected automatically. She would permit Noel to shorten her name, but Chal wasn't even a friend.

"Sure, sure." He didn't sound so convinced.

"So what's the plan?" Chal was leading the way, not Elizabeth, and she wasn't so certain this wasn't because of the same psyche that had caused him to lead the larger action last month; and, no matter what she had told Noel, had almost killed her.

He shifted his backpack, grinning. "We'll get workers in trouble for another fire- so this time, we're going to make it look like someone else."

"Why? If they know we're angry-"

"-They'll call it the work of a deranged few and ignore us. If we make it look like multiple groups, then it's unrest of the masses- serious-"

"-Something that'll make them want to crack down on the whole district?"

"Don't be a Debby Downer, Lizzie." She hated it when she was put down for questioning an action, and she hated it when people called her that that didn't know its origin.

"Elizabeth."

"Sure. Look, this is going to work out. I brought some- this-" Chal shrugged off his backpack, pulling out a translucent plastic box. "-This."

Elizabeth stared at the box, then at him. "Are you kidding?"

He frowned. "What?"

"_This is your idea of action?_ Some dieback fungus?"

"-It's deadly to trees, it'll mess up the Capitol's-"

"It's deadly to logging quotas!" Elizabeth snapped, before flicking her eyes to her mildly distressed brother and calming down. "We do things to get the attention of the public against the Capitol. Not undermine them by fucking-_messing_ up our own citizens to get at the Capitol."

Chal sighed, threw his hands up in the air.

"So this was pointless?"

"It was a pointless idea. I'll show you a better plan this afternoon." She has a few ideas for the Justice Building she'd like to try out- vandalism and arson are certainly in the timetable.

"Okay, fine. We'll hold off until this afternoon, but you better have a good idea; otherwise, you just wasted us an hour of walking in Forestry Zone 6, of all places, on an optimum day of least security."

"I'll have a better idea- and next time, share yours with the revo group before enacting them."

The mutter Elizabeth just catches under Chal's breath as they walk away appears to rhyme with "pitch".

Reaping day was her least favourite day, as it meant letting Noel out of her sight. He wasn't Reaping age yet, but he was startlingly close to it- it seemed not so long ago he had been just her baby brother, lying in their mother's arms.

Their mother was gone now, and Noel rested in the arms of a far more worrying provider.

She couldn't live with herself if one day he was forced to go to its heart.

* * *

><p>They stood in the centre of Justice Square, in Forestry Zone 7. Elizabeth pulled back her hair, strawberry blonde and now tangled by the brush of too many oak trees. It rested heavily on her back.<p>

A middle-aged woman in pink and green, clearly trying to hide her age with her overbearing makeup; this was not the escort Elizabeth recalled.

"Hiii!" She announced, voice bubbling with excitement. "I'm Sisyphia Maurice, and I'm your new escort!"

When she was met with requisite silence, Sisyphia seemed shocked. Elizabeth couldn't help but smirk slightly at the stupidity of the Capitolian- what did she expect, resounding applause? It was Reaping day.

"-Well," Sisyphia continued with a slightly haughty tone, walking to the first bowl, "Ladies first!"

She put her hand in the bowl of slips, extracted one with fingers tattooed in swirling gold.

She read it, and Elizabeth heard the screams of her brother before she heard the words of the Capitolian.

"Elizabeth Adews!"

Her brother will not stop screaming, and she moves to go to him, to comfort him, but a Peacekeeper wraps one armoured arm around her torso and she is unable to move. She could fight, but she was hardly the strongest of women, and she knew she couldn't win. Not now. Not anymore.

She watched her brother stand in dumb shock, screaming and screaming, until a man stumbled forward and clapped a large and dirty hand over his mouth.

_No_. Anyone but him.

But she cannot fight and she cannot stop him and she is dragged to the stage and she does not realise until she is there.

Next to her, Sisyphia seemed shocked as well.

Elizabeth did not notice. She did not notice much until the male tribute was read.

"Turner He-"

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Elizabeth looked up in shock, because Chal was walking to the front and stood beside her. She stared at him in unmitigated horror, because she could not understand, not remotely.

As Sisyphia announced District 7's tributes and stepped back to let them stand together for the cameras zooming in, Chal leant in subtly to murmur in Elizabeth's ear.

"Against the Capitol without harming the citizens; great idea. Glad we waited until the afternoon for this."

Chal thought this was a plan. _Chal thought this was a plan._ Elizabeth could barely think past her horror at how his leaping into the fire at her vagaries had just cost him his life.

She could barely think past her brother with her father's hand clutched around his mouth.

She couldn't defend him from her father now, and he was so young.

And Chal expected her to do something against the Capitol when she had no clue what to do.

The sun was hot in the sky now, but Elizabeth thought her breath was still fogging

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><p><em>Elizabeth Adews was submitted by AbbyCoraby123- with thanks to them.<em>

_With this, all seven submitted tributes have now been revealed, and we are firmly getting through reapings. This point would be most prudent to ask your opinions on the tributes, and who you believe I have chosen to survive the bloodshed to follow._

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	12. Talk the Talk

_With thanks to Glassgift, AbbyCoraby123 and MsAir for your reviews. :) They are always read through and appreciated_.

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><p>The meeting room was in Seneca's personal offices, and consisted of a smoothly constructed metal table with streamlined strips of red LED lights glowing through and around its surface. It was an aesthetic Lexus liked, and he was glad to see Seneca still shared that like with him.<p>

The walls facing outside were mostly blank, with a single slim rectangular window to let in natural light. The ceiling above them was a panel of sun lights to give more of a bright tone to the meeting room, and the floor-to ceiling glass windows to the rest of his offices were currently shuttered open to let in more light and an impression of openness. In the corner of the room, a television sat with its sound muted, fulfilling the mandate for all to watch the Reapings.

"First of all, I want to thank everyone for coming to this meeting." Seneca said, standing at the head of the table. Lexus nodded, and a murmur of similar assent went up. "Now, I'll try to finish this before the Reapings are over so you can all get back to watching-"

"-Or commentating." Caesar Flickerman commented dully from the back of the room. "I've said I'm letting the junior man have a try today, but quite frankly I'd rather join the Games myself than let him do that."

"Then by all means, join," Lexus said before he could stop himself. "Love to see you in a skintight outfit stabbing people in the eye."

"Keep dreaming, Valerian."

"When you're done with the terrifying innuendo, we have an actual meeting to conduct." Seneca said, sitting down to suggest a start. "We wouldn't typically ask you to come, Caesar, but there have been... complications."

"What sort of complications?" Heads turned to Head of Security, Anamaria Dimitri. A relative unknown, even in the Capitol, Lexus had never much cared for her style of leadership in the Peacekeeper Guild and the Capitol Defence.

Mostly because one time he had made some _very mild_ advances, and her response had been to try and choke him with his tie.

He didn't wear ties anymore, but that was another story.

Or so he said.

Seneca sighed. "Josiah?"

The final member of the meeting, the new Head of Communications Josiah Lyman, came to the meeting's attention. "The polling panel for the arena- had mixed feelings."

Caesar looked up from the table. "The- you poll _that_?"

Josiah shrugged. "It's more useful than you think- if Hansen hadn't passed on our clock Quell idea, we would've gone with it."

"Yes, but at this point in time it's not like you can-"

"-Pull another arena out of our ass, sure, but this last poll's usually just a formality." Lexus raised an eyebrow at Josiah's informal language in a business meeting. He might actually like his Games coworkers after all.

"Usually." Anamaria prompted.

Josiah sighed, picking up a manila folder and flipping it open. "While the initial polls were a resounding success, and gave approval ratings we shouldn't expect to see so soon after a Quell arena, we've just keeped dropping numbers."

Lexus frowned. "Well, it'd be hard to follow the Quell, we knew that, that's why there was the staff overhaul."

"Yeah, but-" Josiah tapped the back of his hand irritably against the file. "It seems to figure the more people think about it, the less they like it."

Seneca sighed. "It's too late to change it now, Josiah, I don't know what you want me to do."

"I'm not saying we scrap an arena, just know that people are liking it less-"

"-The more they _think_ about it?" Caesar interrupted. "Josiah, you're new here, but you watch the Games as much as anybody else, right?"

"-Yeah?"

"Josiah, how much thinking is _really_ going on behind most viewer's brains? It's shock value television and it's glitzy; people aren't giving this analysis. You don't need to worry about them thinking about it." Caesar leant back and grabbed a glass of water from a waiting Avox, watching Josiah for his reaction to Caesar's prod.

Josiah's reaction was to brush back his hair irritably and pick up a new piece of paper.

"Caesar, do you know what the arena is yet?"

Caesar paused. The meeting room exchanged glances- while Caesar was their figurehead, he wasn't always privy to full information- living your life in front of a camera does that to your trustworthiness.

"What is it?" Caesar asked. Josiah went to answer but Seneca cut him off.

"I can't have anything being said on camera until the day, Caesar- accidentally or not." The implied distrust wasn't going to sit well with Caesar, even Lexus could tell that, but he didn't need to know what wouldn't kill him. Seneca continued as he picked up a glass of something stronger from an Avox. "Rest assured it's a surprising and fulfilling arena."

Lexus nodded. "Not gonna lie, I went to supervise the computer system setup a few weeks back, and it's incredible. It's been entirely done from scratch to accomodate the size."

"And it'll probably bankrupt us, but that's a problem for finances." Josiah commented wryly, tucking away papers into his folder.

Lexus, however, hadn't quite shaken the image of the arena yet. "It's... a bit... creepy."

Anamaria looked up sharply, eyes boring into Lexus. "-It is?"

Lexus was just slightly put off by Anamaria's sudden attention. "-Well, yeah. Seeing it like that is- it's- it's empty, it's weird. And the additions we've made to it- it is impressive, but-"

"Hm." Anamaria nodded, leaning back in her chair fluidly. The movement let Lexus realise how motionless she was most of the time.

"-Look, this has been a fascinating insight into how pointless half these meetings are, and I'm duly warned about the arena I'm not allowed to see, but can I go save at least part of my Reaping commentary?" Caesar asked, already standing.

Seneca sighed, standing in turn. "I think we're done here, Caesar. My apologies, I thought there was more to speak of than that."

The meeting disbanded. Caesar was out of the room almost on a par with Anamaria's efficient speed, and Josiah Lyman sighed and exited a few moments later.

Lexus and Seneca were left alone.

For a long moment, nothing was said or done. Then Seneca let out a long breath, and sat heavily back on the meeting table. Lexus came over to join him.

"Love the work, hate the coworkers," Lexus quipped, pulling off his jacket- the day was warm, and formal wear was dumb.

Seneca hid his smile by dragging a hand over his face. "I don't recall loving the work."

"Then give it up and come back to something you like." Lexus elbowed Seneca gently in the side. "Seriously, just respectfully talk to the President and say you're not the guy for the job."

"I've been doing this five years, Lex; I got through a Quarter Quell successfully. Even if I asked the President to step down, he'd probably say no and be frustrated I took up his time." Seneca stood, pacing the room absently as he fiddled with the cuffs of his black and crimson jacket. "It's just the seventy-sixth. I'll be fine."

"And the fact you're starting to unravel your most expensive jacket is no indication of anything." Lexus stood as Seneca paced by him and grabbed his arm. "Seneca. You're a tech guy, you headed the tech guys; how you've made a good Gamemaker is beyond me but you're not enjoying it and it's not for you. Come back to the tech team- hell, if you want, I'll step down and you can have your old job. I'm not a big fan of leadership either."

Seneca looked up at Lexus. His eyes made him seem older than he was; he looked weary, resigned.

"Lex. What's your clearance level?"

Lexus raised a silver eyebrow and dropped his hand from Seneca's arm. "Six. Why?"

Seneca shook his head softly. "Lex, mine is seven."

Lexus' eyebrows shot upwards. "But we're- it's- all Gamemakers are at level six, Sen, it's regulated. What, are you special?"

"No, it's just a lie." Seneca said, his voice dropping lower. "Caesar's on level seven, too."

"Why the hell is that the thing anyone would lie about?"

Seneca bit his lip anxiously. "Lex, you're my friend, I've known you all these years, you know that. But that's as much as I'm willing to tell you. The President-" Seneca looked away to the shuttered windows and quietened. "Look, Lex, I can't tell you anything but a tip-off. Things are- wrong, in the Capitol and elsewhere. Clearance levels are being raised, information is being given higher classifications- everything's locking down. And I need to know that if something goes wrong this year, you have my back."

Lexus felt cold. "I- course, Sen, I don't-"

Seneca stepped back, eyes burning with something Lexus couldn't place, something dangerous. "I can't tell you anymore, Lex. I'm sorry."

Lexus nodded placatingly at his friend. "Okay, Sen. That's fine." Seneca reminded him of something, with wild eyes and pacing body. What did he remind him of?

"I-" Seneca gathered up some files and made for the door. "Bye, Lexus."

And with that, Seneca was gone.

And in that moment, Lexus realised what Seneca had looked like- an animal in a cage.

The Reaping still played on the screen beside him, casting dancing shadows on his face.

* * *

><p><em>Hopefully the interim chapter was not too jarring; if it was, please do let me know. I enjoy adding depth to the Capitol, but if it isn't playing well I'm happy to change them.<em>

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	13. Blood on Stone

_With thanks to AbbyCoraby123 for their review of the last chapter. :)_

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><p>A District as disparate as his was especially stringenton Reaping days, as it permitted the authorities to check that no person had attempted to escape from the trains or platforms.<p>

Naturally, every year those without family or opportunities would disappear on a platform, would attempt to jump from a cargo hold- even some from other Districts would do the same, but that was rarer.

Quint would do the same, as would many, if not for his family. His parents had died in a factory explosion before he could even remember them, but his grandfather had cared for him since then, had kept him alive when he needed him the most- and now, when the tables had turned, Quint cared for his grandfather.

But privately, when he thought of his future, how distant and terrifying it all was, he would entertain the notion that he should leave his grandfather to die, make an escape. He knew it was wrong to think. He knew that. But days where he had enough to eat were few and far between, not the norm, and he could barely give enough to keep his grandfather alive.

If he could escape, to another District, to beyond the Districts, maybe even to beyond Panem-

He had always wondered what lay beyond.

But for now he stood in a rope square, herded into a crowd of thousands, standing in front of the newly hosed down Justice Building and a frustratingly clean screen, playing the anthem of Panem, President Snow speaking to them through tinny speakers.

It never failed to put a shiver through the crowd- how terrifyingly patriotic it was, the irony of the video playing today of all days.

The bowl of names sat in front of them and so many knew that if their name was called they would see blood on their hands and it would most likely be theirs, choking them, spilling from them, hot and wet and tacky on their fingers.

The Capitol video showed sunlight, bright and cloying. The sun above beat hard and hot on his head.

As the video ended an imperceptible shiver went through the crowd, as a man with drastic plastic surgery to his face and thick purple eyebrows went to the bowl of names. Quint had stopped caring about the names of tributes a long time ago. This final Reaping and he was finished, and he would be unhampered in mechanics.

A female tribute was read out; she cried, she ran with instinctual fear to the trains she had likely lived in on and off, all her life. Four Peacekeepers boxed her in, grabbed her by her shoulders, escorted her sharply to the stage.

The bowl of male names was approached.

His name was read.

Quint did a double take. His name was read. _His name had been read._

His grandfather was at home, he wouldn't know where he had gone. He had to tell him. He had to tell him where he had gone.

He does not realise he is running until two Peacekeepers grab him hard enough to force his momentum to a standstill, dragging him backwards until he had stumbled to a staircase, pushed up it.

He stood silent and unmoving, his face still but his cheeks flushed, eyes primal, wild.

He is a tribute.

He has seen the Capitol trains. He wonders what he would look like if he jumped out of one of those, going 200 miles an hour.

He is a tribute. He is afraid.

* * *

><p>Hundreds of miles away, in a high profile bar with low lighting, Alec Taupe spits out his drink.<p> 


	14. Blood on Wood

_Apologies for the double chapter in a few hours- I am excessively busy tomorrow, so I wanted to ensure I was still making a chapter a day for you guys. As ever, reviews are always appreciated- thank you for reading._

* * *

><p>Volunteering in a District accustomed to it is not as easy as it is made to sound. These Districts have been training their tributes for seven years of their life, to volunteer and win the Hunger Games- but at eighteen, at the peak of your fitness, when you volunteer you only have one chance at it.<p>

And more than one person is trained in each age and gender group.

Theon was one of six volunteering for the male slot this year, and that was purely within the Training Center- there were always one or two outliers who couldn't get into the Center that still fancied themselves as a potential Victor.

Sometimes, they won the slot.

Theon had no intention of allowing any wins today that were not his.

He shook out a cigarette, placing it in his mouth and following it up with a match. Around him in the pen of his peers, smoke billowed and congealed in the warm summer air.

His apparent father was watching. He hoped he was watching.

His so-called father had been in the Training Center too. He had missed his slot for volunteering, a disappointment to his own father before him, a Victor and a terrifying man.

When Theon won, he would share nothing with the Peacekeeper that dared to make him who he was. That dared to call himself Theon's father after what he had done to himself, to Rickon; to Arya.

Smoke clouded his vision. He was comforted.

A Capitolian, experienced and calm under the glare of a camera, made their way to the stage. A slip was pulled from the bowl- little more than formality, little more than that.

The bloodshed began.

While they had only their bare hands, it did not mean they did not move with purpose. Five women broke from the pack, twisting and spinning into the others in their path. Nails sharpened for the occasion drove into faces, eyes, arteries.

Blood fell on the gravel at their feet. They ran on, two only left, others screaming or unable to.

Finally, one spun and attacked the other, eyes trained to be calm even as she took the other by the head and drove her thumbs into her eyes. She screamed, even as she fell, even as she lay writhing on the ground.

One ran on to the stage.

"I volunteer as tribute. Anna Corinna." She is short but strong, every movement calculated for efficiency. Her hair is cut almost to the root to ensure no handhold can be made of it. Her eyes are calm even as blood drips from her hands.

It is an impassionate efficiency Theon understands but hates.

The Capitolian has seen the same for many years- they are not surprised by the blood staining the wooden stage. They go to the male bowl and pluck a name.

"Hi-"

The ranks break and Theon is amongst them, moving to the front easily. He is tall but he is not imposing, and he cannot rely on barreling past the competition at his heels.

He dropped, the five other men skidding to a halt, but not quickly enough; he kicked out, slamming a heel into the kneecap of an opponent. Instead of breaking as Theon anticipated, it shifted under the pressure, superdislocating- he could see his opponent's kneecap move to visibly appear from under his trousers. The man screamed and fell, trying to clutch at his leg but screaming further at the movement this created- Theon used the momentum of the kick to stand again, punch someone in the face and send them crashing back.

The other two had already fought against one another and sent another flying. One more remained to challenge Theon.

Theon was tall, and his opponent was short; but he went low as the man flew at him, wrapping his arms around his torso and lifting him, twisting back and dumping him unceremoniously into the crowd.

He jogs to the front.

"Theon Veux. I volunteer as tribute."

He has not lost his cigarette; it remains clenched between his teeth.

His adoptive father would disapprove. He can see him in the crowd.

Fuck him. Fuck it all.

Theon is going to win, and when he does, he's giving it to himself and his "street rat brethren".

Because Arya couldn't.


	15. Two Beasts

_With thanks to AbbyCoraby123 and akuhilangditelanbumi for your reviews of the last chapters_.

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><p>The screams that followed Emma inspired her speed; her long hair flowed behind her as she ran heavily to the stage. Howls of pain and screams of horror were her muse, and she spun through the air like it was the sea that rushed in the distance behind her.<p>

Emma was on the stage before anybody could catch her. Her face was flushed, jubilant; she had so much adrenaline rushing through her system and so much blood rushing through her ears that she could barely hear anything.

Then she looked past the crowd to see her father, muted from her hearing, his mouth wide open in a painful, guttural scream, barely audible to her. He charged through the crowd, still screaming, his mouth forming a name Emma did not use anymore.

Odyssea was the name her mother had given her. Ermintrude was the name her father had given her. She could not use the name bequeathed by the dead, and she could not properly use the name given by the man that had decided her marriage without so much as telling her.

He screamed each name in turn as Peacekeepers pulled him back. The Capitolian continued to talk and smile to the camera even as her father screamed and roared, struggling against the Peacekeepers furiously.

Emma did not think he would be so angry, so upset. Shocked, not angry. Surprised, not upset.

He had seen so many children made tools of war, but he could not take his little girl being one of them.

The effects of adrenaline were starting to wear off, and Emma could hear the yells of the crowd. The fury of the tributes to be, taken of their glory by a child; the horror of the crowd at a young girl throwing herself into the arena; her father, howling like a wounded animal at his own little girl, his own daughter, the child of his late wife, running into the fire.

She felt a horrible tug in her gut. This isn't how she intended this to happen. She just wanted to escape her wedding. She just wanted the riches of a Victor.

Around her was pain and fear, and she had caused it. She had to swallow hard against the bile rising in her throat.

The Capitolian went to the bowl of names. The male tributes-to-be readied themselves, and for the first time she realised her brother was amongst them, eyes wide, teeth gritted.

Her brother was about to try and volunteer.

_No. No, no, I don't want this. I don't want this._

Her father appeared to have come to the same conclusion; as even as he was dragged back in the crowd by Peacekeepers he resurged forward with the strength of one about to lose his children to a fight only one could possibly win.

The Peacekeepers appeared to have lost their patience, even on the head of the Training Center; they didn't appreciate people moving against them.

He was dragged to the ground by one, placed on his knees by another. The third Peacekeeper made sure they were out of sight of cameras.

The fourth took out his gun and shot him in the head.

Emma screamed and fell to her knees as the gunshot sounded; the Capitolian read out the name of the male tribute, and eight surged forward to volunteer.

Emma is throwing up on the ground when her brother runs to the stage. She does not want him to protect her, she does not want him to die, her father just died,_ what did she do, oh god, what did she do?_

Andreas was seconds from the stage when a short man with cropped hair and blue eyes kicked out and broke his kneecap.

Andreas fell screaming to the ground just inches from the stage as Ronan climbed the stairs.

He came to the top, reported his name to the Capitolian, then crouched to speak to Emma. She was on her knees, vomit pooled under her, tears in her eyes.

"Hey," he said, voice surprisingly careful, but with an underlyingly stern element. "No use losing them all, right?"

He put a hand out and Emma did not take it. Ronan sighed and grabbed her upper arm, pulling her to her feet.

The cameras were flashing and Emma did not know what had happened. She did this to escape her father and now he was dead. The last moment she had had with him, she was planning to run away.

Andreas screamed on the floor. He had lost his future, his father, his little sister.

Emma knew how he felt.

Blood pooled on the floor of the Reaping pens.

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><p><em>I'm not sure about this chapter, I must admit- if you see anything you do and don't like about it, please do tell me. I wanted to go out on a limb with taking up the conflict a little, as this needed to happen for the plot, but I'm not sure if it works. <em>

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	16. Lamb

_With thanks to Glassgift and akuhilangditelanbumi for your reviews of the last chapter._

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><p>There was blood on her hands, and it felt tacky and disgustingly warm. Glace did not want to think about it. Glace had trained herself not to think about it.<p>

"Our female tribute- Glace Gratton!" The Capitolian called to the District 1 crowd, expertly playing the audience in front of them. The crowd cheered, baying for the blood she had spilt, the terror she had wrought.

Her parents stood at the side, unable to tear their eyes from the action but horrified at its course. She did not focus her gaze on them.

She had to keep cold under the gaze of the Capitol. She had to remain impassionate.

Sometimes she felt as if her cool gaze was not enough; that somebody would see through her and would see why she stood on the stage, that the camera's gaze could kill her if she did not move correctly.

And why wouldn't it? It killed Rhys.

The Capitolian kickstarted the male volunteers, and the crowd howled in triumph and bloodlust as the crimson substance splattered the ground.

Glace did not care who succeeded in volunteering. She truly didn't. She had a plan for the Games, and the backstabbing, bloodthirsty men that would follow her to the Capitol were not her interest. She was slight, and while she had speed, efficiency and considerable aim on her side she did not have the sheer strength or intimidation that was typically required in a Career alliance. She had a different plan.

And her plan did not involve Sheen Astara, his face coated in blood from having wrestled with one of his bleeding fellow volunteers. He appeared jubilant, bathed in blood but not sated of his own bloodlust. The Capitolian smiled graciously and congratulated him, but was careful not to get any on himself.

The Peacekeepers escorted them into the Justice building, and the crowd's yells faded into muted cries behind them.

Sheen stretched out, despite his height and strength as lithe as a cat. He clapped Glace on the shoulder; Glace tried to maintain her ground but ended up swayed by the large and bloodied hand that connected with her. She retaliated with an icy stare, carefully ignoring the feeling of warm liquid seeping into her best sequinned shirt.

She had enough of it staining her hands to cover it everywhere else.

The hall of the Justice Building that Glace was escorted into was decorated with muted colours, purples fading into blues. Glace stood for a moment; legs placed slightly apart to ground her stance. She stood and stared at the gradient of paint on the wall. She took deep breaths, calm and long. She had learnt to do this when Rhys died. She had learnt that she had only two options- grief or control.

This was her control.

She felt blood trickling from her hands, off her back, and her concentration was broken. The door opened behind her, and Glace felt two shaking arms embrace her.

She couldn't bring herself to love them.

They or she would die, soon enough- the loss would break either or both of them. Glace could not permit that. But she could try to help them understand.

She carefully loosened her mother's grasp, turned to face them both. They were weary, upset; this was not what they had wanted of their child, but Glace could not be anything more.

"Oh, Glace," her mother said, voice cracking from the effort to keep it steady. "We know you're upset, we know, but- what good will following him do?"

"There is no use in crying now. I will either die or win, and you can cry then." Glace could not permit herself to be upset, so she pushed it down into herself and remained impassive as she tried to console her parents. "And I intend to come back."

Bodies were generally returned to their families after the Games, so Glace was not lying.

Her father spoke next; he seemed drained of all he had, as unable to feel as her. Yet, despite that, his voice was laden with emotion.

"Glace, darling." He gathered her into her arms, and both parents hugged her tightly. Glace should not permit herself to do so, but she hugged back, briefly and tightly.

As she pulled back and the warmth left her and the blood trickled down her back, it felt like she had been ripped in half all over again, and it was all she could do to keep her mask on.

"I'll be back," she said, voice wavering despite her best efforts. She could not tell them everything of what she was doing, because she did not entirely know herself; but she knew she would either absolve herself of her sins or purge the Capitol's in trying. She could, however, tell them this.

"And I'll bring Rhys home with me." She promised, her heart ripping in two at saying his name, a name she never said because the pain broke past everything she had built to repress it. Her parents looked overwhelmingly confused- likely because his body was returned three years ago with the rest of them. But Glace knew what she meant.

And soon enough, they would too.

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><p><em>And with that, the Reapings are over.<em>

_Thank. God._

_I love setting up characters, and introducing them is fun, but the time must come when I need to just smoosh them together and let actual plot happen rather than setup and emotion._

_But soon. Not in the next chapters._

_I'm actually quite excited about the next three, because they're really going to be the last big setups, and then we can all watch the dominos fall into place._

_I hope you're enjoying this as much as I am, because your submissions are all divine to work with. Thank you, as ever, for reading- from here on in, I'll try to keep a more minimal presence as the plot begins._


	17. Mizaru

_With thanks to Glassgift for your review of the last chapter. :)_

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><p>"And so, ladies and gentlemen and all, this has been Caesar Flickerman, and these have been your new tributes!"<p>

The small, low-lit bar was spread with strips of deep blue lights. Here and there they were punctuated with a bottle, a glass- something garish blue and alcoholic in one, something pale lilac and spicy in another. Light refracted from the strips of lights from glasses and bottles, shining dully on the faces of rapt people that turned into jubilant people.

The bar erupted in cheers, the patrons raising their drinks to the screen. The low level of murmurs and theories now erupted in full force- the strange events with Emma in District 4, the volunteer for District 8, Cesal- the running boy in District 6, Quint.

Quint. Alec's mouth was dry. He could not look at the television, not anymore.

He had seen that boy. He had given credit coins to that boy. To Quint.

Quint Barkwater.

He was so thin. He still was. Alec could not believe he had been so close to the boy that was to go to the Games, go to-

Go to his death.

Alec suddenly felt his stomach turn unpleasantly. He shot a glance at his drink- it wasn't soma, so he had no idea why he felt like-

Alec went pale.

"Hi, Alec, can I get a-" Someone said behind him, but Alec was already gone, spinning on his neat work shoes and sprinting away, blood-red tails of his tuxedo chasing him behind.

He threw up heavily in one of the soma rooms kept for such an activity. The marble basins smelt thickly of bleach, cloying and clinical. The scent attacked his nostrils, the strips of light above and below throwing his face's profile into a cacophony of light and shadow.

Quint had tried to run and now he was going to die.

And he had watched.

And done nothing.

He wiped his mouth, feeling no better now than before. He turned, and Ganymede stood in the doorframe, concern clear on his face.

"Alec, are you okay?"

He could not find words to speak of the suffering he had witnessed, and he felt inadequate to speak of it at all, to put the magnitude of his thoughts into coherent expression.

He had to lie. He couldn't do anything else, not right now. His returning smile was wan as he walked, shaking, to Ganymede.

"Fine, probably just something I ate. Don't worry."

Alec silently bemoaned in the next moment that his boyfriend was so attentive, as Ganymede took Alec by the shoulders and looked him over.

"You look pale, Alec, god, are you sure you're fine? Look, if you're really bad we can get you to a hospital-"

"-No, no, I-" Alec looked up at Ganymede, backing away from his grasp. He shook his head insistently. "-Look, I'm- I- He-"

Ganymede's head tilted minutely, realisation moving through his features like a pebble disturbing a lake. "You're not ill, are you?"

Alec felt defeated. "Ganymede, I promise, I'll tell you what's going on. But not now. Not right now. At home."

He did not know why, but he did not want prying eyes and ears near them. It was, probably, trivial matter, he knew that. But it felt like more. Seeing Quint there, it felt like much more. His skin prickled in fear.

"Okay," Ganymede said, clearly trying to permit Alec space when he was this visibly distressed. "But if this is an ex-boyfriend thing, I can kick him out our bar right now. I'm strong."

Alec couldn't help but laugh weakly at that, accepting the arm that draped over his shoulder as they walked out. "You fell over trying to get a bug out of the apartment."

"Yeah, but I squashed the bug."

Alec smiled, but his eyes remained dull and glassy.

Quint had run, and for the first time in his life Alec wanted to do the same.

He wouldn't tell Ganymede everything. Not the part about speaking to Quint. He edited away a run of mainly truthful events to tell his boyfriend- ones that seemed less painful, less frightning.

He did not know why, but he was afraid to admit the experience in whole. He did not know why, but the concept of speaking about it at all scared him beyond belief. Especially around others. He was afraid to admit it even to his partner.

He was, perhaps, afraid to admit to himself that he had seen a District member, a tribute, a child- and had seen himself reflected in the stark, impassionate, /raw humanity of the boy's eyes.

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><p><em>Thank you for reading, as ever. :)<em>


	18. Kikazaru

_With thanks to AbbyCoraby123 for your review of the last chapter. :)_

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><p>Screams and chaos sounded on the screen behind them as they pored over the papers on the desk. The screams were visceral, gutteral- they grated on Josiah's every nerve.<p>

"Damn it- _Donna_! Can you mute that?"

A woman with long blonde hair and a crisp blue tunic pushed her head round the door. She mockingly saluted him, and Josiah did the same.

The screams stopped. Josiah returned to the sheafs of notes.

"Really?"

Josiah looked up. "What?"

Lexus snorted as he scribbled a few notes on one of the equipment lists. "You call your Avox Donna?"

This wasn't the first time Josiah had gotten criticism for this, and he had less patience for it every time. "Well, what am I supposed to say to her, 'Avox'? 'Blondie'? 'Hey you over there, that one- no wait, not you, that one'?" His tone was dry; he didn't look up from his notes. "Now, you were saying about the Cornucopia?"

"Yeah, it's crystalline- we have some mesh arrays set up for later on in the eventuality of a feast occurrence." Lexus leaned forward across the large desk. "You don't need a name for your Avox, you know."

Josiah shuffled his notes around with more force than strictly necessary. "We felt it sent the wrong message if we used electricity to potentially kill any tributes- we were talking to a guy in your department and he mentioned the possibility of putting up a visible laser array instead." He flicked up his gaze towards Lexus' piercing blue eyes. "Her name's Donna, and she answers to it. Live with it for five minutes and get on with the work."

"I'm getting on with the work. Look, I don't know who in my department you talked to, but they were either messing with you or on morphling. A visible laser array is not only dumb, it is nigh-impossible to design, produce, transport, and build into a transparent crystalline structure a visible laser array, especially when it's just a dumb idea thought up by the communications department." Lexus looked like he was about to stop talking, but he continued like a boulder on its inexorable course downwards. "You know, if you want company, you could get a cat... Or buy an Victor or something. Don't have to settle for getting an Avox and calling her Donna."

Josiah pursed his lips slightly, brushing back his hair. "Look, what Tech do isn't what Communications do, but I'm just trying to keep both Snow and the Capitol happy." He, too, tried to cut himself off, but it was proving impossible at Lexus' prodding. "I didn't call her Donna, cats make me sneeze, and not only are Victors expensive they're distasteful."

"That's the sound of a man who tried."

"To get a cat? Once. Like I said, made me sneeze."

"You've never had a Victor?"

Josiah really, _really_ didn't want to get into this conversation. "We came to discuss the games, not to talk about my sex life. What about the arena's boundaries?"

"It's almost too big for regular dome construction, so we had to add a supporting column within it. It's disguised, unless someone's looking for it they'll never see it. As for the edges, we've just made them blank walls with a solid boundary behind; they'd need something huge to get through that, so no worries there." Lexus twirled a pen in his hand, the other tapping absently on his thigh. Josiah had seen Lexus a couple of times since their first meeting in Seneca's office, and he had always looked edgy. "Something up?" He asked. "Victors put their price up? The blow-up dolls too expensive?"

Lexus shook his head, with a faint smile crossing his features. "Here I thought we were done with the blow-up doll joke when Caesar went off to have his temper tantrum." He stilled the pen, but his hand still tapped against his thigh. Josiah wasn't a tech guy, but he knew people.

"Lexus. What's going on?"

Lexus looked Josiah in the eyes. He flicked his gaze around the room, as if afraid of sudden attack.

"Does anything seem- wrong, to you?"

Josiah frowned. "What, like we've missed something out?"

"No! Nothing like that." Lexus had leaned in and lowered his voice, which went against his typical M.O by too much to be normal. Josiah leaned in to match, and the two murmured in the yellow-orange light Josiah's home office provided.

"Like- in general. The Games. The _Capitol_. Nothing seems- off, to you?"

This conversation suddenly rung home with hundreds of anti-insurrection lectures Josiah had heard at school. The office closed in around him, and the air was staler in the air. He kept his voice steady only by pure will.

"I- no, what do you mean?"

"The arena. You said the polling board were concerned."

Josiah bit his lip. That was true, and there was no way to deny the concern. He was mildly concerned himself. "I- they're always concerned, Lexus, that's their M.O."

"Not like this." Lexus had the pen in both hands now, and seemed to be quickly and ruthlessly disemboweling the mechanism. "I mean- have you_ seen_ it?"

"Not yet." The horrified awe in Lexus' voice gave him pause. "I'll be there with you as the envoy to the Capitol, so I'll see it then."

Lexus shook his head. "It's- it's incredible. The pictures don't do it justice. It's- it's desolate, silent, for miles and miles. It felt abandoned." Lexus moved his head oddly- just once, sharply, to the left. "We're putting a couple kids in there and leaving them until they've ripped each other apart."

Josiah had no words to answer with. He did not want to hear this. Not when he had climbed so far, he couldn't have anything like this happen, not now.

"Yeah, well, it's brutal but it's necessary." Josiah arranged his papers hastily and stood, anxious to get Lexus out. "I need to-"

"No, wait, _listen_." Lexus leapt the table like it wasn't there; a far younger man in a middle-aged man's body in that instance gripped Josiah's arm. A pen spring bounced softly on the carpet beneath their feet. "What's your security clearance?"

"-Six. It's the same for all Gamemakers. You need to read the stuff they give you to sign, Lexus-"

"-I do read it. As carefully as you do, you must do, you're communications, you know what the Capitol can do."

Josiah tilted his body back- the desperation in Lexus' eyes afforded the Technology head a far more dangerous edge than usual. "I'm the Games head, not the government head."

"We're the only ones in that room with six clearance, Josiah."

Josiah's arms tensed beneath Lexus' grip. "What?"

"Josiah, I can't tell you much, I don't know much myself. But security's being taken up, information's being reclassified- I took a quick look at some file movements on the Capitol servers, and everything's being shifted off their usual servers onto something I can't get into because I didn't design it. _I_ designed almost everything here- what have they got that I can't find?" Lexus was babbling, his eyes wide and imploring- Josiah got the feeling that Lexus had nobody to tell these things to. But he didn't want to hear them. Anti-insurrection lectures rang round his head, telling him to report Lexus to the nearest authority, to not hide incriminating information.

Reality made those orders so much more muddy and so much more in focus- if he reported this now, he was in trouble as much as Lexus. Something major was happening if everything was locking down, and the Games Communication head was clearly not senior enough to know. He would, probably, be put in a Re-education Facility.

He shuddered.

"Look, I- I don't want to know, I can't, I can't hear this- Lexus, ask about the electrocution arrays, go home."

"But-"

Josiah grabbed Lexus, voice like steel, honed by years of rising in the ranks of communications.

"Lexus. Go home. This arena's risky and everyone's on edge. _You're_ on edge. You need to go home and calm down. Okay?"

Lexus swallowed, his silver hair starting to flop after too long since its last gel appliance. "Okay." He collected up some notes, movements slow. "Ask your guy about the security snafu in Sector 7."

"Sure."

Lexus nodded painfully and walked away; to the door of the office.

It was then that Josiah held up his hand.

"Lexus- wait."

Lexus turned around. Josiah sighed, carding fingers through his hair.

"I'm not undermining you here. It does sound- it sounds really damn dangerous. But you can't tell me this. You can't tell this to anyone. Just hearing it has made my life more dangerous, yours- look, if you find anything really bad for either of us, tell me, but if not- don't go where we're not wanted, Valerian. We're probably still down at level six for a reason."

Lexus nodded, appearing more positive despite the warning Josiah had just given him. He was out the door a minute later.

And Josiah slumped through the doorway, making his way to the kitchen.

"Donna?" He called weakly.

A blonde woman in a blue tunic was by his side almost immediately, tilting her head to show her interest in what he wanted.

"I need a drink. And to talk." The words were a command, but his tone suggested nothing more than pleading. Donna smiled, leading him into a parlour of his house with old, squashy couches and a large television; and, most importantly, a liquor cabinet. Donna poured Josiah a drink of wine, then at his suggestion poured another as well for herself. The two of them settled on a couch, Avox and Capitolian both.

He looked down at his drink pensively. "Lexus just told me shit I shouldn't know. Shit that could get me-" he looked up at Donna's face. He wondered what it had been like to be made into the Capitol's property, tongue and all.

Donna nodded. She seemed to understand. She rarely wrote her thoughts if she did not need to- she had claimed in the past that when put in comparison with the swift speech of a man whose job contained the word 'Communications', her writing skills could not give fair comparison in speed to allow a conversation. But over the year since Josiah had seen her in the Capitol offices and demanded her as her personal Avox, they had achieved a tacit understanding of one another's feelings.

The outpouring of unwanted truth had given Josiah a sudden taste for it, and he looked up at the Avox. "I never asked. Why were you-" Unable to finish the sentence for the horrors it contained, he settled for putting a finger at his lips.

Donna's smile changed from understanding to something- deeper, more melancholic. She made a movement with her hand to simulate a pen, and Josiah grabbed up a pad and pencil.

She wrote six words only.

"_I heard what I shouldn't have."_

He looked at her, his eyes searching. She looked back, her eyes glassy with fear, a detached despair for her creation as the Capitol's own.

He looked back at the paper shaking in his hands.

He blinked.

There was a pen spring on the floor of his office, and he needed to retrieve it. He needed something to do. He didn't want to think. Not now. He stood, draining his glass, made his excuses and left.

A piece of paper laid on the couch, incriminating and understanding in a single unused breath.

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><p><em>When I started writing this chapter, it was going to be Lexus'. Now it's gone to the poorly hidden reference from a previous chapter, Josiah Lyman, and his even more poorly hidden reference of an Avox, Donna, because I have no self-control. Points to anyone who recognises my utter uselessness in society in making this reference. Many more useless and obscure ones to come, I assure you.<em>

_As ever, thank you for reading- apologies for the hour's lateness in getting this one up on the day, but I got a tad carried away._


	19. Iwazaru

He rarely entered the Rose Garden, although he wished he did more. Many matters were discussed within these bright and fragranced walls of foliage- many secrets were held in latticed thorns.

However, it was only by Presidential decree that a person could enter the Garden, given its location within the Presidential Mansion itself, and for Caesar these were so few and far between that each visit became an exceptional and potentially dangerous return.

So he stood in the scented labyrinth of the Capitol's heart, waiting to be addressed.

"Caesar Flickerman." Caesar's job was his voice, so he knew other voices just as well as his own. The voice that greeted him was aged and calm, crackling around the edges but carrying a line of dignified confidence, a line that few people could tread with assurance. It was the voice of a statesman, and Caesar knew it well. He turned, inclining his head respectfully to his superior. He was not known for solemn expressions of respect, but he changed what he needed to of his being for whatever he needed to represent.

"President Snow, it is an honour."

"I am glad to hear it." Snow seemed disinterested in the honour divulged by their meeting. Peacekeepers in black hardshell armour shadowed them carefully as he lead the way through the sunlit gardens. "Your show is incredibly popular, Flickerman. I trust you realise this."

"Without a doubt- ratings typically give indications of eighty percent of the population watching."

"An impressive number, which was why we entrusted you in recent years with the broadcast of the Hunger Games coverage."

Caesar felt a thorn brush his hand, not breaking the skin but leaving a scraped mark where it had touched.

"A trust," Caesar said, "I hope you feel is well-placed."

Snow had been mostly regarding the path of the sunlight filtering through glossy leaves, but at this point he ceased walking and turned to address Caesar.

"I have no reason to doubt your loyalty to your government, Caesar. You have served the Capitol well both as its commentator and as its Games figurehead." There was an implied 'but' in the sentence somewhere, and it hung heavily in the muggy air around them. The scent of roses was sweet and cloying. "But now, I must ask you not to place your loyalty in your government."

Caesar remained outwardly passive. "And where would you ask I placed it instead?"

Snow did not answer. "Are you aware of your security clearance having been raised, Caesar?"

"I was made aware, sir."

"Level seven. You're on equal standings with the Head Gamemaker, and almost on par with the Security Chief. You are entrusted with, I believe, far more than you should be. How much have you read of your newly authorised information?"

Caesar was not sure what answer was Snow's preferred one. He had not had the opportunity to access a secure server and read any of it yet, however, and he was limited in will to lie to the President. "None of it so far, sir." Snow nodded, seemingly satisfied by the answer. It was now, when his own questions had been answered, that Snow deigned to answer Caesar's.

"I ask you to place your trust in me, Caesar, and soley in me." Caesar frowned lightly, forgetting his performance mask for a moment.

"For what purpose?"

Snow regarded Caesar cooly for a moment, appearing to weigh his response as one would weigh flour for bread.

"Caesar," he responded, "You have, I understand, heard of the new arena's controversy without being made aware of its nature."

"..Yes." He had his little birds around the Capitol, but none could get themselves into a position where the information would be divulged- no matter how much alcohol and stronger matters Caesar and his birds plied people with.

"I have no intent to divulge this information to you either; you are an entertainer, and furthermore, within these walls your reputation precedes itself as someone with a proclivity for dealing in- secrets."

_Damn_. "I understand, sir."

"But understand me. You place your trust in me- and I will tell you this. From most recent polls, the understanding is that the arena is not the natural progression from the Quell we had hoped for. It will not be merely extravagant- it will shock. Your job, your job for _me_- is to assuage the people. To smooth tension. To do so, and to do so with _subtlety_. Am I understood?"

Caesar did not like this. Everything about this screamed that he was about to face a public unrest he was not prepared to deal with; and if he could not deal with it, he would be the one blamed for any civil disobedience.

This was nothing he had ever seen debated, especially not at the highest level, and now it rested on his shoulders to ensure nothing happened.

Caesar nodded, because he knew there was only one answer he could give the President. "Yes, sir."

Snow nodded. In this moment, Caesar couldn't help wondering how this old man could wield so much power over himself, over the Capitol, over the world he knew.

He couldn't help wondering how Snow had become the President. He couldn't recall why he was. He couldn't recall if anyone had ever told him.

Snow looked over Caesar. "You have too much interest in secrets for my liking. However, if you serve me well in this- you could prove a worthy ally to me."

Caesar did have an interest in secrets. He knew what happened to the allies of Snow that he felt dangerous enough to potentially supplant him.

He had stood close enough to Snow to smell the blood on his breath.

"It would be an honour, sir." And in that moment, their eyes betrayed one another. They stood in perfect understanding of each other, silent and aware of the animosity they shared.

The silence hung in the muggy air once more. Caesar resolved he would rather die by the gun of a Peacekeeper than by willingly drinking Snow's poison, and readied himself to run through thorns to escape.

Snow nodded carefully. Caesar realised he was not about to die- he knew the motions of a clever man. He needed to.

"Place your trust in me, Flickerman." Snow regarded him for a moment, then motioned to the black-clad Peacekeepers shadowing him. The female one turned around, the male one backed slightly and regarded Caesar as Snow placed his back to him and walked back to the Presidential Mansion.

The male Peacekeeper, a shadow in the light of the Rose Garden, silently escorted Caesar outside.

When Caesar found himself in the cool air of the city streets, he took a breath.

He had seen Snow, and Snow had seen him. There had been a moment of candid understanding of the other's motives- and Snow had let him live.

Caesar worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He had been left in the dark as to Snow's decision; and he realised that now his only choice for survival was to do as instructed and to place his trust soley in Snow.

_The clever bastard._

Caesar smoothed back his hair and placed on his customary smile. With that, he walked back to the studios through the crowd.

He said nothing as he went.

* * *

><p><em>I apologise for the delay in this chapter; I thought being off ill would have given me the opportunity to finish and upload this quickly, but we had a fairly major electrical fault in the house. Long story short, we have a large generator placed outside the house for the interim, and I'll upload a second chapter tonight to make up for the delay if everything remains working.<em>

_As ever, thanks for reading this far._


	20. Fireglass

_With thanks to Katrace and Cocobeetles for your reviews of the last chapter. :)_

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><p>She lay on a bed that felt too soft, too luxuriant. Her arms were rigid, and her eyes were only shut because she made them. The bed felt like it was sucking her down, offering no support but gravity, darkness.<p>

Behind the confines of her eyelids, her father played on a loop, collapsing in a pool of his own blood. The feeling of bile in her throat. The screams of her brother writhing on the ground.

The sound of a gunshot, painfully loud, ringing in her ears still.

She stood. The rhythmic thrum of the train's engines became a rock she held to, reaching through the numb machinery of her mind to latch onto it. She stood, swaying, in the darkness and could not focus on anything more than the train's movements.

She did not want to focus on anything else.

Finally, as if awakening, she tore herself from the dreamlike state she had sunk into like the bed, dark and sucking.

She could not retreat into herself again; no matter how easy it is. She had done it before, when her mother died so suddenly- she had done it again, when her father had announced her marriage to a man she could never truly love.

Perhaps childishly, she had despised the concept with a passion. She knew it was the way of her district, the tacit understanding of her parents of her person, of who she would match well.

They would know better than her.

It was the way.

And she had run from Henry, her father's choice- she had run from her father. She had rejected the way, and she had killed her father. She had destroyed her brother.

If she did not win a game she was likely too young to succeed in, she would die. If she did not kill, she would die. Which was ironic, truly; she had killed already.

She had killed already.

She had-

Emma felt pain leach into her head, dull pain panging in her mind, ricocheting, amplifying. Feeling returned, horrifying, dark. The guilt crushed her and her heart thumped in her chest, reverberated in her neck, and her lungs squeezed and Emma could not breathe, she could not-

She crashed through the doors of the train carriage, breathing too fast to relieve her lungs with oxygen, walking too fast to understand where she was going. She wanted help and she wanted to be alone. She had been on this train for a day and she had felt nothing, felt numb; now she felt everything, too much, and she had caused her father's death and she wanted out, she wanted to go home, she wanted to plunge into the sea and feel the rush of the elements and the sting of saltwater in her eyes and all she had were tears and heartbeat, poor replicas for what she knew.

She had found the end of the train now, a window stretching in a smooth semicircular pane around her to show her the stars above and the trees around. They were dark, but what she could see blurred past her vision, from speed and tears.

She still could not breathe, and every breath she took came more shallowly. Her limbs were shaking and she could not stop moving them, and every movement depleted more oxygen but she paced and paced still, the mocking stars offering her no consolation for her pain.

She was a child who had killed her father in a race to kill herself, and she was too young and weak to kill anyone else.

In a month's time, she would be dead, and her death would be shown to her brother, and nothing could happen to stop it.

Her breath hitched and she created sounds without shape, strange breathy moans that had no purpose beyond Emma's lack of capacity to stop them. She paced and paced, breathed and breathed, both losing in a battle against one another, neither capable of a win.

"Emma?"

She gasped, choked on the breath, made another forced moan, and turned, gripping one arm with the other, laced over her abdomen as she dragged in each breath and exhaled it just as quickly.

Ronan stood at the doorway, her fellow tribute as unshakeable and resolute as the skies above them. He sighed, long and slow, at the breaking girl in front of him; a girl who only days before had placed a sword on his neck with complete ability to swing it against him.

He walked forward, firmly took her by the arm and guided her down to the carpet beneath their feet. It was thick and it muffled their movements, and the luxuriant feel of it gave them both pause- the feeling that they resided where they were not allowed, like children in their parents' bedrooms.

"Emma's the name you use, right? Not Odyssea." Emma nodded, untrusting of her voice to be steady. She had only ever seen Ronan at the Training Center, and training to kill others did not give a clear impression of anyone's stability or personality. She could not trust him with much; especially not anymore.

"You're not gonna like it, but I need ya to breathe in and out slowly. About five seconds in, seven seconds out. Can ya try that?"

Emma could barely manage it, her lungs as desperate to expel the air as they were; her breath hitched minutely on every intake. Ronan seemed to notice the issue, and tried a different tack.

"Alright, forget that. Just tell me- uh- do you have any pets?"

"What?" She spluttered, eyes wide.

"Don't question me, just tell me."

"I, ah, I, yeah."

"Really? What are they?"

"A dog. We never really named her anything, she's just Dog." Emma replied softly, breath shuddering on every intake. Ronan pressed further.

"Old? Young? Big? Small?"

"She's big and old; real fluffy, too." Emma said, casting back to memories of burying her head in the large dog's yellow fur.

"Right," Ronan replied, his tone less conversational than it was determined. "And a swimmer, too, I bet."

Emma, to her own surprise, laughed weakly. "You kidding? She loves the sea, but she always freaks out if it's deeper than her paws. She's awful at it."

Ronan nodded, leaning back off his crouched position into a sitting position to match Emma's. And Emma finally realised what was going on; in forcing her to speak on a neutral subject, Emma's breath had naturally begun to regulate itself again, and while she was shaky she was beginning to feel more natural for having a good breathing pattern. Her chest no longer squeezed; her heart beat more softly.

She sat there in realisation for a few moments, shakily drawing in breaths slowly, and letting them out more slowly. Ronan nodded, resolute and calm, and stood to go.

"-Wait!" Emma called after her fellow tribute. Ronan turned.

"-Why'd you do that?" Emma asked, clutching guiltily at her new silk pajamas and staring down the tribute who now unconsciously did the same.

"I dunno," Ronan muttered quickly. "We're both gonna be in the Careers together- I want good people watching my back." It was a hasty excuse; not exactly untrue, but perhaps hiding more feeling than he wanted to express.

"And how'd you know how to do that?"

Ronan did not answer; his gaze was instead drawn by the large window stretching behind Emma.

"Holy _shit_."

Emma turned; then, upon seeing what Ronan did, stood. The two tributes, awed into silence, knelt on the back seats of the last carriage of the train, and watched the Capitol roll into view.

The first thing Emma noticed was the moat; the rolling, shimmering water, cleaner than anything she had ever seen before, surrounding the nighttime city, reflecting lights of different hues. The lights drew her attention up to the city itself; and it was breathtaking. Spires of steel and glass rose into the air around the edge of the city, their sheen caught by the brilliant hues of a million million lights, shining even at night, glowing and sparkling and shimmering like a mirage.

Towards the center of the city, Emma could mark two buildings only through the haze of brilliant light; one rose in a straight, thick line, strong and resilient, a deep black rectangle of darkened glass. Emma knew that as the Training Center- the true one. Not the tiny academy branches of the Districts, not her father's rusted shack of concrete and weaponry; this was the true icon of power, the real danger.

The second building wasn't made of darkened glass, and didn't rise in the solid rectangle of its partner in the skies of the Capitol. This one was spiralling, majestic- it rose in a tall, slim pyramid to tower even above the Training Center, and it_ shone. _Every surface was brilliant steel and glass, and it was resplendent in light from the buildings shining around it. It did not give off light, it merely reflected it, amplified it- it shone in the brilliance of a thousand suns, when Emma had only ever known one.

The Capitol burned with light, so brightly that Emma almost feared it would burn itself out.

The Capitol burned with light, and Emma was about to step into its fire.


	21. Tailing

_With thanks to AbbyCoraby123 for your review of the last chapter._

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><p>District 12 is made of wood and rusted metal, if Emil was to quantify it. The scent of smoke in his hair and clothes; the warmth of the summers in the Meadow, the bitter cold of the winters by the fire. Tailings, the piles of refuse left over from extracting coal from the rock, had formed hills both old and new in the landscape, sliding piles of black slurry that would eventually be taken over by vegetation, become as much a natural part of the landscape as everything else, besides their unnatural sloping.<p>

That was how he thought of his home- the only home he had ever known, that and a small run of trees outside the district. Smoke and coal dust, wood and rust.

And now Emil stood in a station with a glittering sunlit roof, everything clean and shining, clear glass screens showing his face. Nothing had a scent, everything was so clean- for one used to distinguishing plants for safety by scent, a matter between life and death, it was a jarring difference. It was, he thought, much like the expensive Capitol medicines her mother would occasionally pay a Peacekeeper for- clean glass bottles, a label filled with precise chemical information, a scentless liquid within. It was clinical, traceless.

The Capitolians that existed in such traceless lack of existence bayed for blood they'd never want on their clean floors. He wondered what sort of existence it was to live in a place with no need for anything. He supposed that's why they bayed for blood.

Around him as he was escorted to a large, double-decked car with an open balcony on the top, Capitolians milled about, took his picture, waved enthusiastically. The young girl that had been Reaped alongside him seemed more enthused in the day since she had been Reaped- she had looked on the edge of death before, with hollow cheeks and glassy eyes, but the rich fare of food on the train had added colour to her face and life to her eyes. Emil noted this, filed it away in the extensive list of notes he kept on the Capitol. He made a supplementary note beneath that it was likely to hide the worst of malnutrition to the Capitol's eyes.

He wasn't particularly interested in the fact, but he remembered what he saw, and it helped. He had little strength, but a knowledge of plants that rivalled even his mother's had kept him alive through many a winter. He had created lists and files in his mind, and by filing them had created a system that permitted him to access them at will. Each 'file' corresponded to a medicine on the medicine shelf of his home; something that never changed, something he knew by memory with ease. The Capitol went with the rarely seen scentless medicines on the far right of the shelf; their clear glass held memories and knowledge he had filed in its depths long ago.

As Emil was escorted to a slim metal building he was casually informed by his escort to be the 'Remake Center', he mentally ran his fingers along the dusty caps and stoppers of the medicines, stopping at the smooth metal cap of the Capitol medicine, adding the information to its clear depths.

It took Emil a moment to realise he was running his finger over a stopper in reality. His thin cotton jacket held a stopper; a bottle, as he inspected it further. He pulled the bottle from his pocket; and caught on a breath.

It was a tiny copper bottle, stopped with cork. Only two days ago, his mother had given this to him, asked him to collect some honey.

It had been the last thing his mother had given to him, said to him. It would likely be the last thing he would ever hear of her voice.

He had forgotten about the tiny copper bottle. He held it in his hands, metal warmed by his pocket, metal shaped in a thick cylinder, a bottleneck stopped with cork.

"Oh, hey! Is that a token?"

He raised his head to the overweight man in purple curls. The escort, sensing discomfort, attempted to assuage it by talking.

"You know, your district token; to take into the Games, to represent you and your district." He leant forward to look at the copper bottle, as did his fellow tribute- she was dark-haired, a Seam girl, and while Emil wasn't predisposed to prejudice, Seam children had stolen enough medicines from his mother for him to be suspicious of her interest. He returned the bottle to his pocket, unwilling to give up the last link he had to the home he knew.

"Yes, it's my token." Emil smiled, knowing he had to at least try to appear friendly for his escort to try and get him sponsors. "My parents own an apothecary."

_Well, an apothecary stall in a black market you would have them shot for owning, but details were details, _Emil mused.

The large, open-topped car stopped at the Remake Center, and he and the young girl were ushered out, through camera flashes and surging crowds, into a dark building. The darkness out of the sunlight threw Emil's vision, and he paused to stop and permit his eyes to adjust; unfortunately, the group of people that then emerged from the shadows to take him by the arms and upstairs seemed to disagree with Emil's stalling. He stumbled into a curtained area, and just as he adjusted to the darkness a number of high-intensity lamps were switched on, making Emil squint and shy away.

The next few minutes passed in blurs of light and shadow- strange, grotesquely altered people, asking him to strip down, put on a thin papery gown, and lie back on a chair. The people around him, high-pitched and frustratingly enthusiastic, picked up strips of paper and laid the sticky side of it to his legs. Before he could realise what they were about to do, and persuade them against it, they had yanked- and, judging by the pain he felt a second later, taken half his leg with the strips of paper and wax.

"What was that for?" He managed. His prep team ignored him.

"He's a little dirty, but nothing we can't fix; plain, but just _look _at those gold curls! I would kill for those curls!"

Emil snorted lightly._ Come in with me to the arena, and you just might get the chance._

Gritty pastes, copious shampooing, wax (which he quickly grew to hate) and clippers; after a solid hour of being harassed on a chair and trying to persuade them to stop (and discovering that his silver tongue wasn't effective on the gaggle of silver-dyed Capitolians that were his prep team), he was told his clothes and token would be sent to his quarters, and he would be sent now to be dressed and placed on a chariot.

He nodded, smiling, because against them he could do no more than that, and being true to his feelings of injustice and mild anxiety would do him no favours in surviving the arena.

But as he was escorted to the stylist, a tribute appeared to have had a different opinion. A short boy, perhaps older than his height suggested, crashed backwards through a curtain, halting the procession of his prep team. The boy was almost entirely naked, save for underwear and a battered, dirty beret- which the boy had two hands firmly over the top of.

"You're not getting it, I don't give two shits what you're about to do with it!"

The boy's prep team implored him in varying tones of frustration to take the hat off, give it over, they'd return it to him in just a moment. Still the boy refused, clamping one hand over his head and using the other to flip the Capitolians off.

The Capitolians shied back in unmitigated horror, and Emil realised the boy's middle finger ended at the first joint. The boy, in response to their shock, curled his lip in savage jubilation.

"Look," one pleaded, stepping forward tentatively as if afraid of attack. "We just want to clean it."

"Well, I just want my sleeping pills, but I'm not getting any of those, either, so tough luck, lady!"

"I'm male!" The Capitolian said in indignation.

"Male, female, you've got cat whiskers attached to your face. Wasn't going to mention it, but..."

Emil found himself liking the guy in the hat.

With an air of finality, a Peacekeeper revealed themselves from the thrown shadows and curtained labyrinth, drawing their baton as they advanced upon the group.

"Woah- woah!" Emil yelped, jumping forward and raising a hand in instinctual response, holding his hands out between the Peacekeeper and the group. The Peacekeeper tilted their head and raised their baton, and Emil jumped back slightly and raised his voice.

"If you leave a mark on me, the Capitol's gonna see it!"

The Peacekeeper stalled. They tilted their head again. Emil knew what they meant_. Go on._ Emil's voice raised slightly in pitch; he hadn't meant to leap to anyone's defence, it had been merely instinct that had put him at the front of the crowd. But now he was here, his only way to assuage the situation was put his silver tongue to a practical use.

"Everything calms down if he gets some pills, right? So just give them to him. No harm, no foul." Emil said with a weak smile, voice thick with anxiety as he watched the baton shift in the Peacekeeper's hand. He didn't care about the guy in the hat anymore, he just didn't want to get hit.

The Peacekeeper regarded the melée carefully. Then nodded, once, curtly. They turned, walking back to their place in the shadows.

Emil let out a sigh, dropped his hands. The Remake Center had dropped to silence, empty and strained.

His prep team rushed over to him, shocked and angry, ushering him to the stylist with indignant fury. Probably they thought it was 'acting up' to have done what he did, so soon to the chariot rides.

Quite frankly, he agreed with them.

He shot a glance backwards, to the tribute in the cap, so angry, so desperate for sleeping pills. He looked vaguely shocked at the moment; standing in silence, now permitting his prep team to tentatively take his hat, usher him back behind the curtains.

_What the hell had left him so in need of sleep?_

Emil walked through shadows and curtains, missing the sunlight of home.

* * *

><p>Ahh, tributes meeting tributes- what we've all been waiting for. Perhaps not for them to meet each other in their underwear and flimsy paper gowns, but hey- I can promise more awkward and slightly hostile meetings to come! ..Yay.<p>

In any case. Thank you, as ever, for reading this far. We're getting tantalisingly close to the chapters I'm really excited to write.


	22. Glitter and Flame

_With thanks to Glassgift for your review of the last chapter. :)_

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><p>She wore a large dress, and it was entirely made of paper. It rustled, billowed- with the high heels she had never worn before, it limited her movement to little more than teetering half-steps.<p>

Elizabeth was wearing a tulle paper prison, and she despised it.

"You look beautiful, darling!" Sisyphia gushed, wearing an identical pale tulle skirt (if not made of paper) and a frilly blouse. "You look like a proper Capitol girl; not all jackets and work clothes! You have such a lovely figure, such lovely hair- this really compliments it!"

Elizabeth wanted to respond to her escort that the last thing she wanted was to be a Capitol girl, entrapped in frills, unable to understand anything beneath the surface. She wore work clothes and jackets because she had to, because she had to move in them- she had to be able to provide for herself and her brother, through work or revolution, and when her revo group weren't active she took solace in providing by working for grain and oil, money and necessities.

She doubted Sisyphia had worked a day in her life, and she desperately wanted to tell her of the sensation of calluses on her fingers, the gnawing of an empty stomach- the unending horror of watching your mother executed for trying to ease that hunger by whatever means necessary.

But she was in the Capitol, and Peacekeepers surrounded her. So she settled for, "I can't move in this thing."

Sisyphia smiled. "The sacrifices we make for beauty, Lizzie darling!"

Elizabeth did not smile back. "It's Elizabeth, and there's a flame on each side of this chariot."

Indeed there was- it appeared to be fed by gas, glowing orange. She could see the other chariots with bridled horses around her, and they each had flames perennially glowing and flickering, penning in the tributes on each side of the wooden chariot.

Sisyphia frowned. "-And, Elizabeth?"

"I'm in a paper dress, and there's a gas flame on the chariot."

Sisyphia's head jerked half a centimeter, as if she had just woken up- she looked up at the chariot with its flickering flame, and back down to Elizabeth in her large, rustling cover of paper.

"Ah." She said sharply, shifting her skirt in her hands.

"Ah." Elizabeth copied, her tone only lightly mocking. Much as she disliked Sisyphia on principle, she still needed her for any potential sponsors.

Sponsors. Her life was left to the Capitolians she had dedicated herself to destroying, and she hated nothing more.

She looked down at the paper dress. Back up at the flame.

For the first time since arriving in the Capitol, Elizabeth smiled.

Chal, in a white paper tunic, arrived with a cloud of prep workers buzzing at his side. He seemed to be relishing in the attention.

"Alright, okay, it's adjusted enough, let's get them on the chariot," the stylist mused, brushing his beard pensively. A small shower of glitter fell from the movement.

Chal jumped up with a grin; Elizabeth slowly followed, idea and resignation coming hand in hand.

"Okay, boys and girls," a man at the front yelled, "Show time!"

_Indeed it is._

A blaring from outside. The Panem theme had started. Elizabeth grittted her teeth at it.

They shot her mother to the strains of this song. She tasted blood in her mouth and realised she had bitten the inside of her cheek. She turned to Chal, who seemed almost jubilant to the song.

"I have an idea."

Chal frowned. "What?"

Elizabeth decided to test her fellow tribute's loyalty. She hadn't confided in him that this hadn't been a plan she had taken up with the revo group; probably, neither of them would survive to return to the revo group, and even if they survived to the last two, he would certainly not survive to return.

She wanted justice. She did not want death.

A boy waited at home to be saved from his father, and she was his big sister.

Chal would not survive, but for now she needed him to believe they didn't care about that.

"Do you trust me?"

Chal paused. He smiled, rubbing Elizabeth's arm. "Sure, babe."

She smiled, even though she wanted to break his fingers for touching her like that.

"Then follow my lead."

* * *

><p><em>(Oh Horn of Plenty)<em>

The crowd screams with excitement, Avox in red tunics beating drums with rhythmic precision to the national anthem.

_(Oh Horn of Plenty for us all)_

The chariots roll out with timed accuracy- the horses have been beaten until they can ride with nobody touching their reins.

_(And when you raise the cry)_

Glace Gratton and Sheen Astara lead the chariots in resplendent glowing stones. Sheen is powerful in the glowing light, jubilant; Glace is shadowed by the light, the flickering flames at her left and right casting hollow shadows on her eyes.

_(The brave shall heed the call)_

Theon Veux and Anna Corinna are decorated in diamonds and granite, every pore in their body shadowed by reflective light. Anna is primal in the glitter, it does not suit her, but Theon embodies it- he stands tall and proud, observing the crowd with what is not anger but could pass for it if you looked at him too closely.

_(And we shall never falter)_

Behind 3's chariot rides Emma Kjaergaard and Ronan Horne. Emma rides in ornate netting made of bronze, and Ronan is decked in silver. Behind her, the names Odyssea and Ermintrude lie in tatters, laced in blood. She breathes slowly and deeply, and the Capitol do not notice.

_(One Horn of Plenty for us all)_

Quint Barkwater rides with chains and machinery weighing him down. He finds a camera to stare at, and does so with hollow eyes shot with determination. His gaze falls upon the Capitol, one to one, and it quietens some of the more observant Capitolians. One, in a blood-red tuxedo, closes his eyes and holds his breath so not to throw up again.

_(Oh Horn of Plenty)_

Elizabeth Adews and Chal Detria ride in their paper trappings. Something unreadable is in her eyes, and she finds a camera to smile at with thick, ironic gaze. Their escort is being quickly moved from the back to the front of the run by a car, and she watches the proceedings with the suspicion that something very wrong is about to occur.

_(Oh Horn of Plenty for us all)_

Cesal Nesbin stands in a cloak of patchwork cloth, flapping behind him in the wind the chariots are riding against. His hands are shaking. He needs to sleep, and has not done so for too long. He has been promised sleeping pills if he can make it to the Training Center, and the defiant spark in his eyes promises he will make it there. He smiles. He always smiles.

_(And when we raise the cry)_

Emil Reynolds is the final tribute to emerge. While coal dust paints his dark suit and coats his face, his hair is golden, and it shines. Someone, last minute, added a sheen of golden glitter to the hollows of his eyes, his cheeks, the suit he wears. He catches a glimpse of himself in the large, transparent screens. He does not recognise himself beneath coal and glitter.

_(The brave shall heed the call)_

Twenty-four tributes are driving down a road of Capitolians, travelling where thousands have made the same journey before.

_(And we shall never fall)_

This time, something changes.

_(Though dark may fall)_

Flickering light emerges from the chariot in front of Cesal's. He frowns, looking closer- before leaping yellow flames rise and catch the attention of all behind them and some in front. Cesal grips the wood front of his chariot, feeling his limbs shaking. Something is wrong.

_(Through darkness light will shine)_

Someone yells something behind them, and Quint turns. Behind him, in Seven's chariot, the girl has ripped the front piece of her dress off, dipped it in the gas flames that surround her, and set it alight. She waves it like a flag. The crowd is still screaming, but something new has caught their emotions behind it.

_(As they believe)_

Sisyphia screams in horror as not only Elizabeth, but then Chal both begin to tear apart their costumes and burn them, waving them like a banner. Around her in the car, escorts sigh and comment on the poor manners of district children. But Sisyphia heard what Elizabeth said to her, and for the first time is brought face-to-face with awful realisation.

_(The darkness is the light)_

Shadow and flame roar and rip into each other for power, and Elizabeth drops the burning banner before it can scorch her hand. But the horses were beaten with heated irons to train them, and the burning, ashen paper whipping through the air to Eight's chariot horses sends a wave of overwhelming heat to their senses, brings them wheeling about, rearing.

Cesal and his fellow tribute are sent sailing from their precarious wooden chariot.

With two horses spooked, the rest behind follow suit in an agony of screaming, running, rearing.

Tributes are lying on the ground, yelping as horses trample them- while Ten, as the livestock district, get theirs under control, Twelve's horses are beyond placating, and Emil is sent speeding by two horses galloping in roughly the same direction to the front of the run.

While the horses in front of Seven's chariot cannot see anything, they can hear the fear and pain of their compatriots- some stop, some accelerate, but with One's horses refusing to move the others are forced into a bedlam behind them.

Quint jumps from his chariot before Seven's can collide with theirs- Emma climbs above the wreckage of the collision with hers and Five's chariot, while Ronan attempts to placate the horses.

At the front, Sheen dutifully stands waiting for the horses to begin again- Glace has already dismounted the chariot, and stands impassively, observing the chaos unfolding. Theon and Anna are wrestling their horses on each side- Anna has resorted to beating one with her hands, while Theon tries to cover the other's eyes.

And in the chariot of Seven, Elizabeth and Chal stand amongst ashes in destroyed costumes, watching in horror at the chaos they have created.

_(One Horn of Plenty for us all)_

The music ends, and Coriolanus Snow realises that the screaming of the Capitolians is no longer joyful.

He clenches his hands and feels the dull ache of his bleeding mouth.

He will ensure recompense is ensured that this happened before he was due to speak.

Ashes rise and screams continue. Panem's anthem is long since over.

* * *

><p><em>There we go. This was the chapter I was really excited to write. Imagine me with a sadistic grin on my face. Also incessantly coughing. About that.<em>

_At the moment, I'm not all that well. And I don't have a buffer for this piece. So, for the time being, updates may be slower than I'd like. I'm making a note of delays and will make up for them with double-chapter days in the future. Till then, I'll do what I can. (Also, just an unrelated bit- are these the correct lyrics for the Panem anthem? I mean- I always thought it was 'the horn of plenty overflows', but apparently this is the real thing...?)_

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._

_And trust me when I say there's a lot left yet to come._


	23. Glitter in Flame

_With thanks to Glassgift and AbbyCoraby123 for your reviews of the last chapter._

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><p>He sat heavily in the silent apartment for District 9, as he had for endless years before. On some years, he would arrange with other Victors of a similar age to himself, and travel down to another apartment for a drinking and catch-up session. Over the years, however, the sessions blurred together and nobody could tell what had or hadn't happened anymore.<p>

While it was doubtless that this year they had something to share, this year they had not been given the leisure of escorting themselves to their apartments. Peacekeepers had rounded up and apprehended a large number of escorts, mentors and tributes; the girl who had burnt her costume was flanked by the black of the President's personal security team, while a surprisingly sober Haymitch sleazed with and snapped at the Peacekeepers surrounding him until they had permitted the injured male tribute for 12 to recieve medical attention.

Rufus had been surprised at the only Twelve mentor- he had never seen him elicit any concern for his tributes before. He had respect for the mentor, but since the boy had won half a century before in the bloodiest Quarter Quell he had ever seen, he had been withdrawn within himself with alcohol and grief.

Haymitch had been clever. Too clever for the Capitol's liking.

Rufus knew what that was like.

The apartment door opened with a sharp crack of wood; while his left ear was deaf, Rufus had good enough hearing in the other and good enough vision despite the drink in his hand to notice the black-clad Peacekeepers entering his apartment. They surrounded him in a malicious cloud; one removed the drink from his hand, two others grabbed him by the shoulder and walked him to the door. The fourth had a gun held ready in his hand.

This was an unprecedented taking and an ominous use of force. Rufus did not resist- he was almost eighty, what good would come of struggling?

A car waited for them outside, windows tinted black, engine humming near-silently. They drove in a long oval around from the Training Center to the President's mansion, a stark building of white and grey marble, the ride silent. Rufus felt a palpable tension, in the car and beyond- he could see scorch marks on the pristine stone flags of Victory Walk, hastily vacated seats left and right. Everything was silent, outside and in; almost unsettlingly so.

Even District 9's meagre Victor's Village had more life than this. The Inner City was dark, bereft of lights.

They arrived at the President's mansion and he was escorted through a side door, walked through a silent, stumbling expanse of shadowed foliage.

Then, he was inside again, and he squinted against the light as his eyes adjusted to it.

It didn't take long to make out the figure that sat observing him.

"Rufus Warnke." President Snow said cordially. A board with checked squares sat in front of him; he began setting out small marble pieces upon it. "Victor of the 14th Hunger Games. You were the last Victor of the original Games, after the former President Sanchez' unfortunate death."

"I remember." He remembers a boy taking the helm of the ageing and then dead President; a boy barely old enough to shave, but with a peppering of blood on his mouth and a sheer absence of emotion in his eyes.

The boy was older now, blood scourged from public sight with trained efficiency, but the unsettling abyss of his soul still remained behind pale blue eyes.

President Snow gestured carefully to in front of him. "Please."

Rufus sat, aware of the opulence of the room he sat in. On the far end sat a desk. He wondered if this was Snow's office.

A quiet settled over the ageing men as they surveyed the board in front of them. Rufus, recognising his place set to white, moved a pawn carefully two spaces forward.

"Can I ask the occasion, President Snow?"

Snow matched his pawn a single space across to his right.

"We both know the answer to that, Mr Warnke."

Rufus played little, but he played well. A second pawn moved forward with precise care.

"And so late in the day?"

Snow elected not to move his pawn but the bishop behind it. A more senior piece entered the field than the two pawns Rufus had sent out.

"Unfortunately, essential work was required that took up my time. I assure you, I had no intention of disturbing you at this hour."

"Which, I guess, means you're as shocked as the rest of us; this isn't a publicity stunt to follow up a Quell, is it?" Rufus moved his second pawn a step further.

Snow flicked his eyes up to survey Rufus, before placing his gaze back to the chess board. He pushed out a pawn, his aim clear to release the knight and the rook behind them.

"If you expect me to be entirely candid, Rufus, I believe you are in the wrong room, with the wrong indication of who you're talking to." He had the skills of a statesman, but he was accustomed to speaking in riddles to Capitolians; Rufus was a Victor, and a citizen of District 9, and far too old to twist words when they weren't needed. Rufus considered the chess board carefully.

"The hell am I going to talk to? I'm one of three Victors in almost eighty years in the bread district." Rufus slid forward another pawn and looked up at Snow. For the first time, he noticed the minute twitching of the President's eye. "And neither of us are getting any younger; what's the odds either of us are around in a decade?"

"Strange to hear a District person speak of odds, when they know theirs are far lower." Snow released his knight and set it apace from his pawns.

"Not as much as you'd think." Rufus matched the knight with another pawn, setting a small front of them across the board. "We find our ways."

"You have made that abundantly clear tonight." Rufus could barely make out Snow's response, but he couldn't help letting a low chuckle out at it. Capitolians never understood how transparent they made themselves.

"You think this is all some giant conspiracy to overthrow you or something? A bit of paper?" Rufus, for the first time, moved one of his back row- the queen slid across the board. "They're kids. If we're gonna talk odds in the districts, a quarter of their parents won't have made it to see them past Reaping age. I guarantee you the Seven kid's got something to prove and nothing to do it with, and thinks they're being clever."

"And you would say that if it was the truth?" Snow asked, sliding his own queen onto the board with haste to match Rufus. And for the first time, Snow had revealed himself, and it was almost sad. Rufus smiled, shaking his head.

"You poor son of a bitch." Behind him, nigh-imperceptibly, armed guards bristled. Rufus chuckled, leaning back in the plush chair. "You really believe that, don't you?"

Snow clearly didn't appreciate being mocked, and especially not being pitied. He flicked his gaze to his guards, as if placating himself in his security.

"You are not in friendly company, Mr Warnke. I suggest you remember that."

Rufus shook his head again. "If you think I don't- well, that's your problem, President Snow. You saw a kid set her dress on fire and you think someone planned it. You think anyone plans anything? I was born in the Dark Days, same as you. I saw first-hand what happened to people that resisted being taken back under control. Who doesn't remember seeing the footage of District 13 when your people bombed the hell out of it?" Rufus had forgotten the chess board now. He had figured out why he was here, and he couldn't help but laugh at the assumption. "You've called me in because you wanted someone who wouldn't care about fencing any information on rebellion. Because you honestly think there is one." He would have laughed, but he couldn't. "I see kids dying every day. I see kids lashing out trying to get food in their stomachs. There's no planning, there's no rebellion- it's just fear. People are cornered and hungry and afraid. If this was controlled, they wouldn't have ripped their clothing apart to light that fire. If this was controlled, the girl in my district wouldn't be going into training with a broken arm tomorrow. If this was controlled-"

He surveyed Snow. "You think it is."

Snow, for the first time, seemed every inch the strange, terrifying boy flecked in blood that had announced himself President. "I know it is."

Rufus shook his head. "Then you're the only one who knows that. I've come back here for almost as long as the games have been going, and I'm old now but I see things too. And you've changed your security. You sent four guys with guns just to escort me here- what the hell am I gonna do? I'm seventy-goddamn-eight!" A younger man would be more careful, but he wasn't young anymore. "You're getting paranoid in old age and think everyone else is coming for you- and you're making everyone else edgy. You might think you're stopping a rebellion, but-"

Silence fell. Rufus looked Coriolanus in the eye.

"The arena."

Coriolanus was stripped bare of defences, and all he held was a chessboard and armed guards that could do nothing against the truth. He stiffened under Rufus' realisation.

"You've tried to step up the arena, didn't you? You wanted to make sure the districts didn't push out of place after a Quell, but-" Rufus looked back down at the chessboard. All the large players had been taken out by Snow before he could even move his pawns out of the way, and he had created a muddied strategy. "You've made something worse, and it's too late to pull out. And now you're afraid."

Snow's voice was sharp, but seemed brittle. "You're not a stupid man, Mr Warnke. And Seven's Victors- I hold them in considerably less regard than you. Johanna Mason is a loose cannon, and if I discover she has been pushing her tributes to any treasonous activity-"

"-You won't." Rufus said, voice low. "We're too busy keeping ourselves alive to worry about a coup. I think we've wasted both our times here."

But he shifted his queen, just enough to place it within grasping distance of Snow's king. And with that, he stood as Snow did, inclining his head respectfully, permitting himself to be escorted from Snow's mansion by four armed guards.

Snow was left alone, protected by armed guards in all directions.

He picked up a decanter of Scotch. He held it in his hand. Then he threw it at the wall. Glass and liquid exploded everywhere, dripping on the carpet, littering the ground. Coriolanus stood there, observing the destruction he could create. He thought of Rufus stripping his intent bare; a crow, pecking an eagle.

Then he turned sharply to his guards.

"Well?"

One left the room and promptly returned with an Avox who began to clean the broken glass. Coriolanus watched, trying to exact a savage pride from the petty action but feeling nothing more than the slow burn of adrenaline in his veins.

He could taste blood in his mouth.

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><p><em>Rufus Warnke was submitted by Katrace- thank you for your submission, and for being so patient as when you would see him. :)<em>

_Ugh. This chapter was a bear to write. Not because of the characters, but- uggh. I'm on every drug known to man to try and get rid of my cough, and I've missed four chapters in the gap. I'll make up for them, and I'm getting better so I'm going to go back to a chapter-a-day format from here on in._

_Also, I wrote half of this when I was on the strong drugs, and I'm not entirely sure they didn't affect this. If you see a sudden deviation in plot in which Snow decides to turn purple and become a plane; just count it as a typo and move on._

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	24. Bandana

He woke up in a haze of warmth and comfort beyond the groggy feel that sleeping pills left him with. He was enveloped in such deep comfort and nested warmth that he didn't even register the compulsion to get up with the dawn; he just closed his eyes again and settled back in comfort. It had been too long since he had last slept, and he was glad to ease back into it.

He should have known better than to fall asleep without the pills, but he hadn't been thinking straight.

He was back with the Reversers at night- Cutch Hassan beside him as his superior, Dane Twill behind him as his lackey. The Black Bands held a significant amount of territory that spanned the train station as well as other infrastructures, and other gangs were always trying to smuggle drugs and other illicit items from their territory. Cutch lead the Reversers, which did as it suggested- it turned back the other gangs with a vengeance.

This was before anything had happened. Cesal was content, if faintly annoyed by Dane Twill- the guy was desperate to please, and had latched onto the Reversers' second in command. Cutch just thought it funny that Cesal had a fan, and despite Cesal's begging had never reassigned the kid.

But the Soiled Hand had, that night, decided to become cocky; a large shipment of Morphling had arrived at the station, and Cutch had given Cesal half the group, told him to secure the Soiled Hand members while he ensured nobody else was using it as a diversion.

Cesal was fourteen years old then, and while these gangs were naturally entirely within or below Reaping age, he should have known he was too young to lead others.

He should have known.

The Soiled Hand had brought too many members for half a patrol group to deal with; and Cesal was a fighter, he never backed down, and he just kept hitting, he didn't even register the guy with the knife swinging at him before it was too late, before-

Dane Twill, small and eager to please, sprung in front of Cesal. A knife dug deep into the kid's stomach. Blood was everywhere, hot and wet on Cesal's hands as he tried to hold the boy's guts together in his hands. The night was loud, roaring in his ears. The heat was unbearable, Dane was screaming, it was Cesal's fault he was dead, it was his fault-

Cesal woke up, wrestling out of the thick covers and the overbearing heat. He gasped for air, jumping out out of the bed, hands clenching at nothing with rivulets of imagined blood rolling down his hands, tacky as it matted into his arm hair. Gasping, eyes wide, he dragged his sweat-drenched hair back, again, again, pacing the cool tiled floor and staring at the dawning light of the Capitol.

He was standing in the capital city of Panem, watching the sun rise, but in his head he was still there, years ago, his hand slipping through wet flesh, recoiling in horror as in his desperation to keep Dane from bleeding out he pushed too far into his ripped and torn stomach.

Cutch had found them with the patrol group- had alerted the authorities anonymously. Unauthorised weaponry was the one matter Peacekeepers were not lenient about when it came to gangs. But it was not enough to save Dane's life, and it hadn't been enough to save Cesal's psyche.

Sleeping pills were hard to come by in District 8, but they stopped the nightmares- and after months of saving himself from the horrors of his sleep, his body stopped producing any of the necessary chemicals to tell his mind to sleep.

He knew, because doctors had told him, that eventually he could regain his ability to sleep if he slowly reduced the dosages he took. But then the nightmares would return, and so Cesal was stuck.

He took deep breaths, flexing his hands, feeling the reattached fingers of his left hand try to match the fully operational fingers of his right.

The city was quiet so early in the morning. It was strangely comforting. Cesal caught his breath, settling himself in the day. He dragged back his sweat-drenched hair again. And then, with surprised contentment, realised he had the capacity to fix something immediately.

He padded across the room to a bathroom larger than his and his siblings' rooms combined. The shower was large, glass walls and chrome fixtures- it was fitted with hundreds of buttons, and besides the 'on' button absolutely none were labelled at all. Cesal hovered his hands over the buttons, temporarily overwhelmed by the excess of choice.

Then he got over being overwhelmed, and mashed as many fingers as he still owned against the buttons.

Unfortunately, this was not a good idea, as bright blue, boiling hot water that smelt of stawberries and roses began cascading onto his head.

"Fuuuu-ck!" He leapt from the shower, only partially slamming his side against the glass doors. Steam leapt from the shower cabinet. Cesal groaned. "Damn Capitol." He pulled a large, obscenely fluffy towel from the rack on the side, wrapping it around himself. He was clean enough; he was pretty sure he had melted off half his skin, anyway.

The mornings, as it turned out, weren't the Capitol's style; especially after the chaos of last night. While his fellow tribute Resta Hurst was awake soon after him (tearfully nursing her fractured arm from being flung from the chariot of wheeling horses), their escort and their mentors didn't appear to take him to training until several hours later. At this point, Cesal had already discovered the wonders of the in-room catering services that produced food at the touch of a button, and had consumed several large breakfasts while observing the cityscape from his bedroom window. He was almost content, despite what awaited him.

As he was escorted downstairs with Resta (flanked, oddly, by several Peacekeepers), he picked at the uniform he was wearing. It was tight-fitting against his skin, emblazoned with an '8'; it felt glitzy, and looked like it would be a pain to get off with his limited movement in his left hand. All in all, it was flashy and held no practical use; and for god's sake's, it was-

"-Bright red." Cesal looked at his glorified jumpsuit with unabashed horror. Resta was too busy whimpering in pain to comment, but his escort tutted.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand style, Cesal."

"It's the same style as last night- a wreck." His quip wasn't made in the best company- his escort sucked in a breath in horror, and around him Peacekeepers bristled.

Cesal, for his own safety, remained silent until the Peacekeepers had left him to the Training Halls.

He stood in a line of twenty-three other tributes, observed by black-screened cameras on all sides, and a lot that he reckoned he hadn't spotted yet. A woman faced them back, an old Career victor of some description flipping a lance from hand to hand. She paused, regarded the tributes as if seeing them for the first time, then flipped the lance to one hand and swung it with all her strength. It hummed where it swayed in a foam target.

Eyes returned from the wobbling lance to the Victor. Clearly, thirty years hadn't diminished her ability.

"In a couple of weeks," the Victor said with impassive calm to the children standing before her, "All but one of you will be dead. These next three days are here to give you all a fighting chance at being that one person."

Cesal felt the ripple in the tributes around him- the primal instinct to live, against all odds.

"You all want to kill," the Victor said, ignoring those that clearly didn't, "But do not forget that you don't know where you might end up in a few days. You could be in a forest, a desert, a mountain; any skill taught here could save your life. You need to know them all if you want to live to see the winter snows."

With that, they were dismissed, and the line slowly broke apart. The obvious Careers walked to the weapons racks immediately, making quick and sharp discussion amongst one another. A tall guy with a '2' on his shoulder seemed to be leading the pack. Others made unsure headway in the same direction- the stocky, crying girl from 4, the guy from 7 that had burned his paper tuxedo.

Cesal, along with others, wandered off in unsure directions to different training stations. Cesal was about to find one to stay in alone, before he noticed a guy with blonde hair, the number '12' emblazoned on his training suit. The guy that had gotten him his sleeping pills.

Cesal followed him to the plants station, telegraphing himself clearly enough to permit the 12 kid to know he was there. The guy looked up at Cesal with surprisingly little interest as he crouched down beside him in a bed of newly planted foliage.

"Enjoying the plants?" Cesal quipped, plucking one between his fingers and surveying it.

There was a strange silence between the two of them. Then 12 guy spoke with stilted amusement.

"That's poison ivy."

Cesal's smile dipped. "Son of a-" he flung it away from him, and it flopped unceremoniously on the floor. "Poisonous how?!"

12 guy shook his head. "Not like that; they wouldn't want you dying before the Games begin." A thread of irony ran through his voice, and Cesal found himself liking the kid. "It gives you a rash, but they've put some jewelweed here; that'll keep it from binding to the skin." He deftly plucked a few purple-flowered plants from the ground and handed them to Cesal, who promptly mashed them into his skin without being asked twice. The 12 kid raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

Silence stretched between them for a moment- Cesal rubbing the plant between his fingers, 12 kid inspecting the plants on the bed in front of him.

"So I'm Cesal."

"I know. I remember."

"-Right."

"You volunteered for someone named Cutch Hassan."

"-Right." Cesal didn't like that the 12 kid had a good enough memory to remember even who he had volunteered for, when he couldn't even remember 12 kid's name.

"Family?"

"We look like family?" Cutch Hassan had very little ethnic similarity to Cesal- almost to the point of making the question absurd.

"He could be a cousin."

"You think I'd volunteer for my cousin?"

"I think you volunteered for him for some reason."

Cesal was starting to dislike this vein of interrogation. "I just love the cameras, kid."

"Kid? You're at least 3 years younger than I am."

"I'm seventeen." 12 guy sat back and surveyed Cesal.

"Wh- I'm sixteen! I look fourteen to you?!" Cesal stood up in defiance.

12 guy almost, _almost_, smirked. He stood up to match, highlighting that while Cesal had the advantage of wiry muscle, there was five inches of height difference between them both.

"Yes."

Cesal glared. "Listen, kid, I'm making an alliance with you here, so stop being a dick."

"I'm sure threats are how all the best alliances start off."

"You know your plants. I'm a city guy. Together, we span a hell of a lot of the potential arenas out there. You're from 12, right?"

"-Right?"

"So you've not got a lot of fighting experience."

"Yeah."

_Good- it'll make you easier to kill when you're not useful anymore, _Cesal mused.

"Let's just say I've had a lot of experience with that. You keep us from dying of a mild rash, I'll keep us from getting stabbed to death. Sound like a deal?"

The 12 guy surveyed Cesal for a moment. Then he cautiously extended a hand. "Fine."

"Great. Now what's your name?"

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><p><em>I promised myself I'd cover more than just Cesal and Emil making an alliance, but god damn I've been excited to get going with tribute interactions. This is the first of a few training chapters, so you'll see more soon.<em>

_Enjoying the potential alliances so far? Concerned by anything? Please do let me know. :) As ever, thank you for reading this far. We're getting closer and closer to the big chapters, and I'm excited to get the characters there._


	25. Honour

Training at home had prepared him for training in the Capitol; there was little the Centers didn't prepare their potential Victors for. And there was a protocol, an accepted strategy, which worked on screen and in reality in a certain pattern.

Stage 1: Assert yourself as a leader or clear member of the Career alliance.

Well, the word 'Career' was never spoken by a trainer, but it was known as well by the Careers as it was to the outlier districts. It made sense- to the Careers, the Games were just that. Theon certainly believed it to be just that. While it was a brutal lifestyle that he had been entirely re-moulded by his 'father' to present himself through, it was an entirely logical course. The Games brought riches, fame, honour; for those that could make it through seven years of training to become a tribute, it could give them the opportunity to be something better.

While Theon had little interest in fame, the money would give him and his siblings of the street an autonomy he had never had since his true father had died; and the honour of winning might finally permit him to finish what Arya's death had started.

So he started to establish himself as the leader of the Career group. He was first to the weapon rack, appearing casual but using his advantages of height to stride swiftly there before anybody else. He was not thick with muscle but he filled his tall frame with a build to match, and he hefted a large sword in his hand without much need for straining at the weight. He turned, surveying those catching up with him.

Time for stage 2: determining the alliance.

With three Districts holding Training Centers, Theon would expect to be one of six potential Careers. But, as his trainers had so often said, there were always exceptions to the status quo. Sometimes a Seven or a Five would have enough muscular bulk to perform well enough in a group; occasionally, groups could be more concerned with being ruthless than having sheer muscular strength. All forms could turn out in a Game, and Theon was trained in them all.

The Ones were a mixed bag; while Sheen Astara, with a shaved head and a body built to display muscle had become the typical Career to the point of being stereotypical, Glace Gratton was a slim waif of a girl, toned but thin. While her face seemed friendly, a soft, heart-shaped oval, and she looked like she'd have a sweet smile, her eyes were cold to the point of seeming dead, a dull, piercing gaze that observed but did not strike. Theon marked her as a potentially incendiary enigma and moved on.

His fellow tribute, Anna Corinna, was built for fighting. Her hair close-cropped, her shoulders heavy with muscle, her smile betraying an enjoyment of the blood Theon bore. She was the dangerous element in any Career pack; someone who enjoyed killing, rather than accepting it. Theon reckoned he needed to kill her first.

The District Four tributes were odd, to say the least. Ronan Horne seemed less built for muscle than gymnastics; he was fairly short, with legs that bent out slightly and a duck-footed stance, but he moved with the grace of a dancer, a lithe and enigmatic character. Theon was unsure what to make of him, but was certain that he posed little threat to someone determined to win.

As for Emma Kjaergaard; Theon didn't know what to think. She didn't strike him as typical Training Center fare, but her build was distinctly un-feminine, powerful with muscle; she might have resembled the tribute from his own district if not for the carefully kept waves of pale caramel hair that were tied together in a soft ribbon. It gave an impression of femininity, gentleness; it marked her as something not of a Career pack, and Theon felt that he was not the only one who knew it.

So the three Career districts arrived at the weapons rack; but one other arrived amongst them, a '7' on his shoulder, a cocky grin on his face. While Theon had already clearly taken the weapons rack for his own, the etiquette of a Career pack would not be known to an outsider, and the Seven boy took an axe from the rack with a swaggering confidence. Theon could not believe the dishonor of the action; the Seven tributes had burnt their costumes only the day before, in an act that even Careers could see was defiance. And here he was, a rebel walking amongst the killers like nobody had seen what he had done.

The Seven girl, Elizabeth, whipped up behind him like a flash, long chestnut hair waving loosely down her back like the flames she had thrown behind her.

"_Chal_," she admonished in a terrified hiss. Her eyes flicked towards Theon and the Careers with the menace they rightly created. Theon, at least, could respect a rebel who knew where they were wanted and where they should fear. "Come on."

"In a sec, Lizzie." Chal said with an overbearing lightness to his tone that Theon could not help but despise. "Let the boys have their toys before we go sewing or something."

Theon could not tell whether Chal was being deliberately inciteful or unutterably dense, because around him were four women that could and inevitably would make him pay for that statement. One, however, decided they could not wait until the arena. Anna's shaved head tilted and a bright smile crossed her face.

"Hm? You want to go sewing, big boy?" She sashayed up to Chal, who to his credit began to realise what was about to occur and attempted to raise his axe in defence.

Anna countered by whipping the axe from his hands and swinging it to his neck. Chal stood in horrified silence as the beautifully honed blade hovered by his flesh, pulsing with fragile life.

"Let's have a little sewing lesson, then! First lesson- using the needle!" Anna was yelling, now, and trainers around the room were rushing to break up the suddenly tense and silent room. "First of all- pierce the leather!"

And Theon had seen Anna train before, he had seen her ruthless streak, but she had no idea she would go this far, not before the Games, not yet. But the bloodlust pulsed in her like it pulsed out of Chal's neck as she neatly sliced through his carotid artery.

Trainers were yelling, Elizabeth was screaming; Chal was on the black-tiled floor, conscious, scrabbling on the ground as blood pulsed from his neck. He was gasping in throaty, liquid-filled breaths, his eyes bulging from his head.

Theon believed in many things, but foremost he believed in honour. Killing without the precedent of the Games was without honour, without decency. He knelt in the pools of blood on the floor, applying efficient force to the slice on Chal's neck. An artery was severed, but with force he could prevent him bleeding out before he recieved professional medical attention.

Trainers around him were pulling back Anna, taking hold of her axe, dragging her to the floor. Her smile remained, even as it was stained with the blood pooling on the tiled ground. She was laughing at Theon, the action bubbling up the blood around her and allowing it to run into her mouth. Theon ignored her, ignored the screams and yells- he maintained pressure, spanning his fingers along as much of the wound as he could.

Another set of calloused hands joined him, stemming the flow on what parts of the cut Theon could not reach. He glanced up to see a tribute he barely recognised, Quint from Six, who despite having no involvement in the action that had caused this injury was nevertheless trying to stem it. There was no emotion behind the tribute's skin beyond a determination to hold together Chal's. Between them, they permitted enough bloodflow to keep Chal's brain alive and prevent him from bleeding out- a medical team that should have been more prompt came to relieve them of their duties, two people in white coats and masks who held rapidly reddening gauze over the injury as they wheeled Chal away.

Theon and Quint stood. Their eyes met in the midst of the gore they had surrounded themselves with. Nothing was said. The two turned to leave each other's company in the blood, and nothing was said.

But Theon remembered honour when he saw it.

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><p><em>While there's never an official playbook for dealing with sexists, slicing their carotid arteries with an axe is very low in accepted etiquette. Ladies take note; Anna Corinna is not a role model for dealing with sexism, although when not armed she's probably wild at parties.<em>

_Feedback, criticism? Please do let me know. While reviews can be a pain to write, they truly help me see what you see, bad or good, in my writing; and I am beholden to those of you that advise me in any manner, especially for those of you that have entrusted me with your characters to write._

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	26. Farce

_With thanks to AbbyCoraby123 for your review of the last chapter. :)_

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><p>He had washed his hands, and the blood was gone from them. But it wasn't until he walked into the apartment living room and his escort screamed that he realised the force of an arterial spray had splattered the substance across his face.<p>

He had ignored the blood (his escort had done enough to his own face voluntarily; a spatter of blood shouldn't surprise him) in favour of watching the screens set up blaring Capitol TV. Clearly the usual young and pretty newsreader had been bypassed in favour of a seasoned veteran of Games crises- Caesar Flickerman read the news tonight, his garish attire of an entertainer forgone, a sober suit of pure white replacing the glitter and sequins.

"An unfortunate accident in the Training Center today lead to District Seven's male tribute, Chal Detria, being taken to hospital with non-life threatening injuries."

"An unfortunate accident?" Quint said, unconsciously mocking the clipped tones of the Capitol accent. "Wasn't anyone watching the Training?"

His escort shook his head. "They put it on a delay of a minute- if anything bad is said, they switch to other tributes- and if anything truly bad happens, they can cut to recaps of Reapings and vox pops in a heartbeat."

Quint looked up curiously at his escort, whom he had come to believe was merely a surgically-obsessed airhead. The escort shrugged, almost with embarassment at the knowledge he owned.

"You don't get to be an escort for no reason; I used to work the Gamesmaker circuit under Seneca Crane's predecessor. Nothing fancy, naturally; I was just directing and redirecting cameras- but this happens more than you'd believe."

Quint was introduced suddenly to a brand of Capitolian he was almost certain did not exist- an informed one. He didn't know his escort's name, and all of a sudden he wanted to know. He feigned disinterest for now, vowing he would learn his escort's name before the Games in a few days' time. Until then, with only the two of them in the living room (his other tribute had holed herself away in her room and denial, and the few Victors Six held were always on Morphling), Quint could see the opportunity to ask more, to learn more. He wanted to know.

"So Chal's going to come back in? They're not going to pull him out, or re-draw? They claimed it was non-life threatening, but- you weren't there, but she cut his throat. She really cut it."

His escort almost seemed affronted by the suggestion. "We're not your country bumpkin doctors like in the Districts, Quint. They'll have him scarless and able before the Games come around."

Technology like that could have saved his parents from the factory explosion that claimed them when he was a child, but Quint had promised his grandfather he would not become bitter without purpose.

He had promised his grandfather, who without him to provide medication and food would likely be dying. Quint could not imagine it. Quint could not permit himself to. He changed the subject again.

"And what of training scores?"

His escort shook his head, his artificially plumped cheeks wobbling not quite enough to make them seem real. "Worry about your own, kid. He'll get something low to reflect the 'accident', and you need to get something high to make sure you're not down with him."

Quint tilted his head at his escort. "Do you truly care about our lives?"

His escort was almost evasive- his eyes flicked to an ever-ready Avox in the corner. But his tone was firm.

"Of course."

"Then why are you here?" Quint meant it with little malice. He mostly was purely curious how such contrary decisions could align for you to protect the life of the person you damned.

His escort was silent, then- the middle-aged man looked his age for a scant second as he ran his hand through a purple wig. Quint would have ordinarily counted it as vain, but now it almost seemed defensive- a safety blanket, using triviality to hide a broken soul.

"Because another guy might not." He replied weakly, before yanking up a bottle from the not-yet-cleared dining table and retreating to his own quarters.

Quint was not one to form respect easily, and especially not for the people that had kept his own in the fetters of poverty and drugs for so long. But he had formed respect now for his escort, and he could not help re-think his opinion of the Capitol as a whole.

He wondered if the Capitol that had to hide behind glitter and farce to protect themselves from the awful truth they were forced to see were the Capitol he truly hated; or if the Capitol he had learned to despise should actually be counted as the ones inside the Presidential Mansion, orchestrating the tune to which even the Capitolians must sing.

Quint shook his head then, standing. He was an engineer, and his mind was honed to fix problems. But here he faced something insurmountable, and he trivialised his thoughts with the politics of Panem. He had no time for triviality.

He did, however, wash the blood from his face before he went to sleep.

* * *

><p>The morning came and the second day of training began. Quint had mostly tried to gain knowledge in what he didn't know- he lived in urban areas, and while he had no guarantee of where he'd be there was usually fair odds of a rural environment. Plant knowledge, hunting, weaponry- these were matters he knew nothing of.<p>

But mostly, he observed his fellow tributes; the children that in coming days would become meat for the slaughter. They all wore the same uniforms, decked only in numbers to differentiate them; it felt demeaning to Quint. Almost, ironically, like the four golden coins that Capitolian had bestowed upon him in what had been only weeks ago, but felt like an eternity.

The tributes that moved around him paused only to give him odd looks- the boy that had helped a Career save another tribute's life. Perhaps they considered his actions redundant. Perhaps they considered his actions heroic. Quint did not know and could not care.

He had done it because the Two girl had slit the throat of an innocent, and it was, rightly or wrongly of him to believe it, his duty to protect who he could.

He had done it because-

He had done it because-

_Damn it_. Quint threw away a plant shoot from himself in disdain. Plants were incomprehensible to Quint, and so too were certain areas of his own mind. He didn't know why he had really, truly saved that boy's life.

But he had seen it happen, and he had rushed to help the Career boy Theon save Chal's life.

He didn't know why. But the blood had rushed over his fingers, onto his face, trickled into his mouth like a covenant.

He did not know why.

But the Games were arriving fast on the horizon, and Quint would have to make a decision before his time was up on why he had done it, who he was.

What the name of his escort was.

The Training Center was tense this morning; and while he would not know it, outside of the building's boundaries the Capitol was as well.


	27. Crown of Thorned Gold

_With thanks to AbbyCoraby123 and Glassgift for your reviews of the last chapters. :)_

* * *

><p>The day drew on in an endless turmoil. Alec was starting to worry Ganymede had noticed the constant flicker of his gaze towards the television screen- while Alec had always been a Hunger Games enthusiast, and especially in quieter moments of solitude such as the training (the killing always turned his stomach), he had never been this focussed before.<p>

He had broken three glasses this morning trying to pour drinks into them, and with the high-class clientele they attracted Alec simply couldn't afford to be clumsy.

But he couldn't tear his eyes from the screen anymore than he could switch off his own treasonous brain.

He knew a tribute.

_No, he didn't. _Alec jerked his head to the left, the silence making even the creak of his vertaebrae sound audible. He didn't know a tribute, he _had just seen him, and-_

_You gave him your money. You knew that was illegal interaction with a District citizen. You knew what you were doing was akin to smuggling, and you know what the penalty for that is._

Alec dropped another glass, and Ganymede sighed sharply.

"There's nobody even in here anymore, Al. Can you stop breaking our property for one second?"

"Yeah, I- sorry." The edges of Alec's deep red tattoos were just visible underneath his jet-black waistcoat collar, and they were beaded with sweat. He bit his lip and knelt to pick up the shards of glass, and Ganymede stooped to help.

"Look." Ganymede murmured, where they crouched underneath the bar in the empty noon. Dust motes stilled in the air. "I don't know what the hell you've seen on the Games-" Alec reacted too quickly- "-Yes, I know it's the Games, I'm your boyfriend not your customer so don't pretend I don't know anything about you. I don't know what you've seen or what's going on but you need to answer two questions. Can you do that?"

Ganymede's hair matched Alec's waistcoat. Alec's hair matched Ganymede's crimson waistcoat. They complimented but did not match, and Alec loved that more than when they matched. He nodded softly, feeling slim fingers caress his.

"Question one." Ganymede's voice was barely a breath, as if hushed by the tones of Caesar Flickerman above them. "Is what happened against the law?"

_I gave him money, Gan, I knew what I was doing the whole time and now he's on TV and I'll be next facing my punishment, I'm sorry. _But Alec didn't say any of those words.

Alec nodded.

Ganymede's fingers flexed and tightened around Alec's wrist. The pads rested on Alec's erratic pulse. The second question was slightly, just slightly, louder; but it was said even closer to Alec's ear.

"Do you love me?"

They had met when they were just teenagers, had owned the bar together for almost a decade, had lived together for months. But Ganymede had never truly asked that question. When they were younger, there were too many separate love interests for them to be interested in each other; but they had settled, found each other, found a rhythm that completed them.

And now, in a moment of fear over broken glass, hiding beneath a bar, Alec found his harsh pulse settling at the wash of the words he could answer without thinking.

"Yes."

Ganymede and Alec shared a smile; and then they shared their lips, their souls, their secrets hidden but their hearts laid bare. In that moment they were trusting and trustworthy; Ganymede loved Alec and did not care what had happened as long as he was safe- Alec loved Ganymede and did not mind what consequences happened so long as he was always with him.

Ganymede loved him; he loved Ganymede. Nothing else could matter.

"-Hello?"

The two pulled apart- too quickly, as Alec overbalanced on his crouched stance and put a hand backwards into the broken glass. He yelped, tried to stand, and abruptly slammed his head on the bar above him as he did so.

Ganymede stood with the same smooth gait he always did, and pretended not to watch Alec as he swore and whimpered into a standing position.

Sisyphia Maurice stood at the bar. "I was wondering if I could get a dri- oh my gosh, _Alexander_, your hand!"

Alec saw his hand was bleeding, and mumbled a curse, watching the minute shards of glass tip from the bloodied cut on his palm. The stained glass shot tiny glints of red light in the dull shine from the tinted windows to the Capitol outside.

"Back in a mo; I'll just grab some bandages." He said, whipping out of the bar to the back room.

"Need some help?" Ganymede and Sisyphia called in unison. Alec stuck his head back out of the door.

"You're a customer and you own a bar. Other things need to happen; order drinks, sell drinks, drink drinks! I'll be back in a second."

Alec wound bandages around the small cut like he was trying to bandage his entire hand; but it was rare he injured himself, and he had been over-excited about buying med kits for the bar some years back, and had bought far too many bandages. When he came back out, it appeared that Sisyphia had bought the contents of the bar.

"My god," Alec said with a raised eyebrow. "It's the middle of the day, Sisy; what gives with the drinks?" Sisyphia was hardly an unusual sight at the bar, especially not since her elevation to escort status, but she was the plague of every high-society bar- the one-drink wonder who could nurse a glass for hours on end. Now, it seemed, Sisyphia was making up for lost time.

She inspected the dust motes floating into her drink in the stillness of the afternoon air. "I suppose you saw what happened."

Ganymede frowned, leaning down onto the bar table. "Which thing, the chariots or the accident?" Both had been the talking point of the bar last night and the night before- Alec felt sorry for the girl, given it was her first time escorting. Some District kids really had no manners.

"It wasn't an-" Sisyphia stopped herself, her eyes blown wide, her throat gurgling from hastily stopped sounds. As if desperate to drown the words bubbling in her mouth, she downed the drink with feverish aplomb.

The look of teetering on the edge of truth was one Alec had started to know well in the past few days, and he felt a nasty, knowing coolness in the pit of his stomach. Someone else knew the void of something they could not say, and it was burning them the same way the Seven girl's paper dress had scorched the horses.

Four golden coins, heavy and hot in Alec's hand. He clenched it and hissed in pain when he realised his injury was still there.

Sisyphia had drained her drink now and seemed to want it filled with more, as if to give her distraction from the words she had hastily drowned. Ganymede refilled her glass without asking, and down the liquid went, a single bead of the blue alcohol trickling down makeup and smudging glossy lips as it went.

She sighed as she came up for air. "Look, I- I can't tell you boys, okay? Escort duties and such. But I- these children, they're- they're not bad, not really, they're just scared, and I-" Sisyphia teetered on the edge of truth and found it too terrifying to contemplate. She drained another shot of alcohol.

"-What if I can't help them?" She croaked.

That wasn't what she had wanted to say. That wasn't what Alec wanted to say, not about Quint, not really. As Ganymede leant in to console Sisyphia, Alec and her eyes met, only for a moment.

They saw the voids that had carved themselves into their pupils. They came to thick realisation of one another; that the drink in Sisyphia's hand was just the same as the bandages wound around Alec's.

They had seen something in a tribute and now they were concerned for their own safety in talking about it, even in passing - and it was such a terrible, damning thing that they could not speak when they had done so for so long.

But they knew now, they knew, that they had always known they couldn't talk.

They couldn't talk.

Alec felt nauseous again.

* * *

><p><em>I'm extraordinarily tired today and bashed this out in under an hour- thankfully, my plan kept me from sinking under too far, so hopefully I've remained coherent in my recounting of what I needed to put forward.<em>

_Speaking of my plan, it now puts Jacquerie at being halfway to completion, if I stick to the planned chapters. And, if everything goes to plan, we should be in the Games before the weekend's over._

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	28. Last Night

The training for the second day and the third blurred into one another in Glace's eyes. After years of doing much the same routines in the glowing halls of District 1, the soberly dressed steel and rubber of the Capitol felt stark; lifeless. The glowing stones of her own Training Center held scars and secrets of shining steel in their blacklit center, but here there was nothing to center herself on, no private rooms, no solitary nights. Their movements were regimented in and out by agitated Peacekeepers, and within the Training Center only the black mirrors of the relentless television cameras provided any light.

Glace endeavoured not to look at them. On the one part, they reminded her of the distraught parents she had left to watch their daughter through the screened blinds of the Capitol; on another part, they reminded her of when she had done the same watching Rhys only a few years ago. He had stared into the camera as he coughed up blood, his brown eyes choked with hurt and pain.

Glace would not permit anyone the same fate for her, and so she learnt the positions of the cameras and scrupulously avoided their gaze. Besides, she cared little what the Capitol saw of her face. In fact, if anything, she afforded a certain modicum of vindictive pride from making their jobs harder.

Only a few matters had stood out to her, and those all concerned that of the other tributes. The Career pack, while temporarily separated by the chaos of the first few minutes of training, had tentatively rebanded and coalesced into a singular unit. While Glace moved amongst them she did so only to observe their movements; she wanted to know them and let them know her as little as possible. She did not want a Career alliance; she could predict only her own actions, and she could only put her trust in what she could predict.

But, subtracting herself from the equation, the Careers still numbered five; her One companion Sheen, the Twos Theon and Anna, and the Fours Ronan and Emma. While Sheen lived to be muscle and controlled brutality, and was quantifiable in Glace's eyes, the others remained frustratingly enigmatic for a Career pack.

Anna and Theon had formed an oscillating leadership between themselves; no informal consensus had been reached and there was no chance of a formal one. While Anna was dangerous and passionate, a smile on her face even now she had washed Chal's blood from it, she lacked control over herself; she could not even contain her bloodlust to the Games. Her reaping, Anna had blinded a girl with her thumbs- her training, she had sliced a tribute's throat for a comment she deemed worthy of death. She was unpredictable and uncontrollable, and it could spell victory or downfall. And Theon; Theon was Anna's antithesis. Controlled and calm, most of the group gravitated to him; perhaps because of his height, or build, or his rumoured Victor's heritage. But Glace privately believed that Theon's stillness and presence as a mediating force in the group had marked him as 'other', a leader because of his clear imposed distance on the others.

Ronan seemed unlikely for a Career, even amongst the curious pack that had emerged- bandy-legged and casual, he acted with crudity but moved with a finesse he could not hide, a dancer pretending to be a clown. Of all the Careers, Glace felt she would least want to fight him; he seemed to hide far more of himself than he gave away in sparring.

And Emma- Glace had not decided, not yet, what motivation drove Emma's sparring. She had observed her, like she had observed everyone, and Emma's movements were alternately frantic and lethargic, a swinging pendulum of motion and despair. Glace recognised the pattern from herself only a few years before- the desperation of grief. What had driven Glace to her frantic moments was the promise of a fight to avenge Rhys' death- what drove Emma to distraction nobody but her could say.

Glace had not just observed her 'fellow' Careers- if she was to truly be alone, she needed to know all alliances and outliers in order to know the movements of them all.

The Twelve boy and the Eight boy, Emil and Cesal, had become curiously inseperable; an odd alliance, given the muted and distant gaze of Emil and the firebranded mania that drove beneath Cesal's eyes. However, Glace could see the practicality; in an urban environment and in a rural environment, one could supplement the other.

Unless, of course, one decides the other is baggage they don't need or want to help.

Glace had also carefully observed the potential rebel, Elizabeth, with her long chestnut hair and her accidental unleashing of public chaos. It was rare to see someone so overtly revolutionary in the Games; Chal, on the other hand, while absent, seemed from what Glace had seen far less interested in pursuing a goal other than survival at the hands of any person to feed him. While Elizabeth would be better off without a now-injured burden, she seemed not to realize this; without her district partner, she had become increasingly more nervous in her motions, painfully aware that her actions had condemned the injured, such as the Twelve girl with the fractured arm, to death.

Eyes were watching Elizabeth's, and not just Glace's. Peacekeepers were unsubtle in who they tracked across the room, and all eyes followed the deep red hair as it moved from station to station, hands clenching and unclenching on guns.

Quint Barkwater had also proved an enigma Glace watched. He spent most of his time in the more rural training stations, as could be expected of a Six tribute coming from the transport centers of Panem; oddly for his relative age, he seemed entirely absent of the reliance on drugs that riddled his District's older tributes in most years. His hands, when helping to preserve Chal's life, had been long-fingered, calloused and deft- they had pursued their course without faltering, without thought to the lifeblood covering them.

When Chal's throat had been cut, nobody had been watching Glace, and she had felt it safe to take a shuddering breath of horror without anyone noticing. But Quint's gaze had flicked across the room, over her face, and she worried that something damning had been revealed in her moment of private horror.

But he spent most of his time alone, absently trying stations, and Glace considered him an enigma and not a threat.

_If I play my cards right, _she thought to herself as she was escorted back to her apartment,_ I have little chance of losing._

She did not permit herself to think of the potential dangers of being a Career on the run. The pack would know she was a danger to their chances- they would prioritise her death the second they realised she had run from them.

* * *

><p>As a District One tribute, her interviews had been drilled into her with precision, her outfits painstakingly designed. Little expense was spared on a One girl they could shower in diamonds. But while Sheen embodied the white suit and sparkling stones, the puffed dress with its layers of sparkling lace did not suit Glace. Her face, perhaps, gave the impression that she was as pure and childlike as the dress could make her seem; but her hair was still in her usual, practical tight bun, her expression austere, her eyes only conveying the emotion she permitted herself to feel.<p>

She lived for control, and the layers of lace gave an unpredictable rustling at her feet she would have despised if she hadn't suppressed her own hatred of it.

She was waiting backstage, and she could hear a blare of music, a cheer of crowds, a laugh that was eminently and enthusiastically fake. An aide touched her shoulder, murmured that she had thirty seconds and manouvered her closer to the thin stairs leading her to the stage.

She closed her eyes and centered herself, ignoring the soft swishing of fabric at her ankles. She was in control, and everything was scripted and ready. She merely had to speak when cued and display herself when the Capitol desired her to.

She knew that would be her fate if she won or not; the Capitol was relentlessly desperate for more from their celebrities, more until there was nothing left for a Victor to give but their agonies.

She knew what fate she had chosen; but she had chosen it, and to her that was what mattered.

* * *

><p>"Live from City Studios for the Seventy-Sixth Annual Hunger Games, please welcome your host- Caesar Flickerman!"<p>

The music was upbeat, swollen with brass; Caesar had learned to hate it after a while, after it played without preamble for every single one of his shows. He had been doing his shows for decades now, the Games for five years- but never before had his smile been so forced, his patter so painful. Nobody in the audience noticed- or if they did, nobody cared. He would have mused on the uncaring nature of a crowd in shadow watching a jester in light, but he felt his analogy might fall short of many of his watchers.

Besides, he knew that Snow would be watching tonight.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's the year after the Quell- and my god, wasn't it _fantastic_!" He had put in this piece to his opening monologue after his meeting with Snow- he felt he had to guage reaction, if he was met at groans from the loss of a Quell or cheers to the greeting of a new one.

He was met with both, and it became more of an effort to maintain his smile.

"Now, I know, I _know_- we're sad it's over. But the best thing is- now is when we really get to see the _pure_ Games, the _real_ Games." Caesar said, injecting enthusiasm into his voice. "Now- we get to see the tributes!"

The last line was swept with a fervent motion into the crowd, and the crowd returned it with cheers- a cheap trick, but always and inevitably one that worked.

Caesar grinned as Glace was ushered onto the City Studio stage.

One more night of this, and the tributes would be gone to whatever arena awaited them, to their deaths.

And if Caesar did not jest and pry at their deaths, to assuage the Capitol, to assuage the President- well. There wouldn't end up being much difference.

Caesar smiled as the tributes spent their last night in the lap of the Capitol.

He hoped it would not be his.

* * *

><p><em>Remember when I said we'd be in the Games before the weekend's out?<em>

_We're going to enter the Games before the weekend's in._

_Tomorrow, I finally get to stop laying pipe for the arena and start making it all happen- and god I am so excited for it. I hope you are too. _

_I've been waiting for this reveal a month now. Let's hope it lives up to both our expectations._


	29. Last

**Y 184-08-31 T 04:44:47**

**Day 1**

* * *

><p>The Peacekeepers had come for them before the sky began to lighten in the sky. Emma had been ready. Emma had not slept the entire night.<p>

She knew she needed the rest for what faced her, but what faced her had dragged her breathing back to a flutter, her heart pattering unhealthily in her chest. She had been ready to face this, but that was before the Reaping, before her father had tried to fight his way to her, before-

Emma sucked in a shuddering breath with more difficulty than such a simple task should take. In these moments, in the silence of her room as she waited for the Peacekeepers to come through and take her to her fate, she wondered at the fragility of a person- nothing but tissue and flesh and blood, sustaining a temporary and painful existence.

Well. Perhaps only as temporary and painful as the Capitol made it, but she had little choice in that matter.

She had made her choice long ago, and now it was here to haunt her.

The Peacekeepers escorted Ronan and herself to the elevator and down- their guns were firmly trained on their backs, as if they were concerned they were going to run.

Frankly, Emma didn't blame their concern. But she had no intent to throw herself into the fire she had lit by Reaping, the one that had consumed her father.

She owed it to her brother to ensure he did not lose all of his family.

* * *

><p>The van that took them through the Capitol was, surprisingly, complete with windows. While Emma had lived by and loved the sea all her life, the sheer opulence of the city that had entrapped her felt like a luxury she could allow herself for what could be the last time. So, as the sun rose, she leant her head against the window, the ride smooth enough that she could rest it there without the glass juddering against her skull.<p>

The buildings in what was apparently called the 'Inner City' were mostly older, monolithic slabs of stone and steel; the seal of Panem inscribed on many, the seal of the Peacekeepers Guild inscribed on many more. The van took them down Victory Road; the same one she had visited only days before in a chariot ride that had turned to chaos. The street was clean now, but the memories abided.

At the end of Victory Road, the circular ringroad that should have contained their chariots days before stood empty, as did the rest of the Capitol; while a few stragglers and people partying into the late night remained on the streets, nobody was awake to see the dawn, merely not yet asleep. They turned, rounding the Training Center that towered over everything in the city, circling past the Presidential Mansion on the opposite side. These were all landmarks she knew; landmarks she had seen so many times before, although they had never towered over her before.

From here, however, the Inner City moved to the Outer City, and there was a palpable difference. Stone gave way to glass, steel to chrome; everything here glistened with modernity and innovation, sparked with a strange life and charm that didn't appeal to Emma but certainly must appeal to someone. The buildings here, while nowhere near as tall as the Training Center, still towered- one, with swirling spires of glass that appeared to light itself from its own surface, chased the sun with artificial strips of light, the primal meeting the modern in both city and sight.

These, she had seen once on a recap, were the creation of Lexus Valerian, Panem's rising star for technological innovation; and, apparently, the tech guy for this year's arena. Emma studied the spired buildings as she would a sparring opponent; searching for patterns in the lights, scanning for tells in the mysterious reflections of the glass.

It told her nothing, and she looked on into the streets.

Here, gambling emporiums held large screens in every street, proclaiming to offer odds on every tribute, along with their training scores. They were soundly unexciting and unsurprising, with the Careers taking top marks (and, Emma noted blandly, Anna topping the list) and the outlying districts lower, with Chal taking the bottom without much surprise or fanfare needed. Emma had fair odds but nowhere near as high as Ronan, Sheen or Theon; she expected that. Anna's topping the odds was really an aberration for most years; sheer physical prowess often won the games, and even the best-trained women often didn't have the prowess to beat a six-four guy whose biceps were made of iron. But Anna held the advantage in a high training score, a terrifying gaze and her promise in her interview to "watch everyone die", and the Capitol had favoured her despite her short build and soulless eyes.

Emma, save Glace, was the lowest-ranked of the pack.

She didn't much care for odds when they had done so little for her.

* * *

><p>The van drove on, through wide, well-designed streets; it was hard to believe that only seventy-six years ago, these streets had bathed in the blood of rebels and Capitolians alike, when everything was so bright, glittering, opulent. The Dark Days were well-named if they had truly caused the devastation she had heard of- she wondered if the Capitolians set their world up with so many lights in an effort to drive away the darkness of their past.<p>

Eventually, they came to the outside of the city, fringed on one side with a reservoir and on the side they arrived from with a rock face. The bane of the rebels when they had attacked, for the Capitol was set inside a natural basin in the Rockies, a perfect strategic post to hide in, a gilded hole for the Capitolians to wait out the war. Not all survived, but most did. The Rockies had been impregnable to the rebels.

Now, however, a thin tunnel ran through the rocks, and here they drove through, the pressure making Emma's ears pop, until they reached outside again and everything was covered in barbed wire and a helipad sat with a large, bulbous hovercraft on its surface. The entire space was enclosed with walls; it felt like a small cell in a large comb, and Emma imagined a thousand such hovercrafts in the same small helipad 'cells', just outside the Capitol's borders.

The Peacekeepers took her and Ronan from the car, guns trained to her the whole way to the hovercraft. Everything was well-timed, regimented, and Emma could not tell if she was impressed or terrified by how carefully so many people planned the deaths of a few children.

She sat in the hovercraft, silently accepted her tracking device, and waited for the other tributes to arrive.

Save a few crying younger children, the journey to the arena was fairly silent, and only a few hours in length. Emma used the time to rest fitfully; Ronan caught her eyes opposite her from time to time and offered a half-smile. She wasn't sure exactly why; while they would be allied at first, he had been unutterably helpful to her in the past week, and she wasn't sure why he had gone to such lengths to help a tribute he'd soon need to kill.

She didn't return his smile. She had lost too many people to become attached to someone she needed to kill.

* * *

><p>They were pulled from the hovercraft individually now, two Peacekeepers to every child. They were already inside a dark cavern containing a helipad and a retracting door above; no indication of where they were was clear in the cavern, other than the gently sloping wall on one side suggesting the dome of an arena. As Emma was escorted into the dome, the floor angled downwards.<p>

While the journey she then took seemed almost deliberately obsfucating, Emma could tell that she was now likely beneath the arena itself, in a series of small, poorly lit concrete corridors. Capitolians bustled to and fro, as did Peacekeepers- murmurs and flickers of activity sparked in the air around Emma, a general feeling of unease.

The Peacekeepers left her in a bare room containing only a small table, a glass tube from floor to ceiling, and a folded pile of clothes. Her stylist entered the room, professional and impersonal, smiling fakely as she instructed Emma to change into the outfit.

It was singularly unimpressive; largely grey, with some darker tones mixed in. The tank top and the thin jacket on top, her stylist said as she carefully arranged Emma's hair into a neat ponytail, was likely an indication of a warm arena; or, at least, certainly not a cold one. Emma was comforted; she had lived in District 4 all her life, and sun was something she could bear with ease. The grey, however, gave her stylist pause; she hummed and hawed about what it could potentially mean, but gave no concrete decision on anything. Her indecision made Emma's stomach flip and her chest beat in irregular time, and she was back to breathing slowly to try and negate her rebelling heart.

Finally, a grating polytone sounded from- everywhere, from the arena above and the floor below, reverberating into her core. Emma's stylist nodded, released her in her grey attire, directed her to the glass tube. Emma took her breathing in hand, did not return her stylist's smile.

Another polytone sounded, muted by the glass this time, and mechanics buzzed beneath her feet and she moved upwards, into expanding light.

* * *

><p>For a few moments, Emma struggled to see where she was- the dark catacombs of the corridors beneath the arena had dilated her eyes, and now she squinted into the glare of an artificial (but deceptively real) sun. The air was balmy, and felt as real as anything else, but prickled her skin because she knew it wasn't real.<p>

Finally, however, as she stared into the sky, her eyes adjusted enough to see the arena.

Silence clamoured around her.

And then the beating of her heart, intense and overwhelming, and Emma put out her hands to a glass tube that wasn't there, because she knew where she was. She looked at a circle of tributes in equal horror to the horror on their faces, because she knew where she was.

Stone flags beneath the metal panel beneath her feet. Behind her, a long road, subtly scorched. In front of her, a wide circle of tributes, obscured partially by a beautiful crystalline Cornucopia. And in front of that, a tall building, one of many, unutterably high, a slab of black glass and steel, and she had been here before, and Emma could not breathe.

She stood in the Capitol.

* * *

><p><em>Jacquerie will return on Monday.<em>


	30. First

_With thanks to Katrace and AbbyCoraby123 for your reviews of the last chapters._

* * *

><p><strong>Y 184-08-31 T 13:59:30<strong>

**Day 1**

* * *

><p>The sun was fake and it beat onto his head. The Cornucopia shined in the light. They stood in a wide circle at a large crossroads, and the Presidential Balcony loomed above them, protruding from the black glass Training Center that went straight up, into the sky that Emil was certain was fake. The Training Center was not the only tall building around, but it was still the tallest in the Capitol, and it seemed to hang the sky from its height like a tent pole for a canvas.<p>

Emil was in an artificial valley- tall buildings surrounded him. Directly behind him, as he pivoted slowly on his plate, he saw the Victory Walk he had come uncontrollably through on a speeding chariot; the stadia thousands of Capitolians had celebrated his uncontrolled parade on were now empty, hundreds upon hundreds of empty rows of empty seats. It was eerily silent. Emil had lived in District 12 all his life, the hum of old mining machinery forming a backdrop to his life. Sound he could deal with. Sound he could understand. But for miles around in this impeccable, immaculate city's copy, all that was audible were the breaths of his competitors and the beating of his own heart.

He was certain it was a copy of the Capitol, that much was obvious to him. While he would question the Capitol's decision in choosing their own city to stage a celebration of bloodletting, there was no chance they would mix their own citizens into the fight. That being said, it was a good copy. Emil had committed the details of what he had seen in the Capitol to memory, as he committed many other matters to memory, and he saw little difference between here and the Capitol he had seen. There were, however, small differences; the Training Center was a few floors too tall, for instance.

Another small difference were the twenty-four tributes waiting to sprint off their plates and kill each other, stood in a ring waiting for death.

Emil turned again on the metal plate, flicking his eyes around the Cornucopia. Clear crystal, angular and sharp, there were backpacks and small weapons strewn on the paved streets around it, but within Emil could see a veritable plethora of carbon-fibre and steel weaponry, a vast store of food. That was unusual for a Cornucopia; but, Emil mused, made perfect sense. If they were trapped in an empty city, food and water would be an especial problem for all.

Finally, Emil's gaze shifted to his apparent ally, Cesal. Tense and shifting, Cesal was on the opposite side of the circle of tributes; his eyes flicked pensively from the arena to the fake sky, back down- he met Emil's nervous gaze. Something Emil couldn't quantify passed through the boy's glittering eyes.

Emil knew the nature of their alliance; in a rural environment, with his knowledge of plants, he could have kept the two of them alive. In an urban environment such as this one, Cesal's expertise would keep them both alive.

If Cesal kept to his end of the agreement. Which, as far as Emil could see, he had no incentive to do.

Cesal nodded at Emil, and Emil nodded back. He had the impression that neither of them knew what they had meant with that nod.

Suddenly, a light flickered from the Cornucopia- emerging from the crystalline structure itself, golden light coalescing into a flickering holographic image.

It said '30'. One of the younger tributes abandoned laboured breathing for a high, horrified wail; long and unending, the call of the dead. She was perhaps a District 9 girl, Emil wasn't sure- he hadn't bothered to memorise the ones who would clearly be dead before the sun set.

Her wail increased in tenor as the light coalesced again to '29'. This time, a low thrum sounded overhead, almost drowning out the pre-emptive death throes of the girl.

It clicked to '28' and the world thrummed again, buzzing beneath Emil's feet.

His breathing increased in pace. He had to figure out a strategy for this arena, right now. He was a 12, and he had seen far too many games where the Careers made and honoured the sadistic game to hunt down the tributes by descending order. By the elation on Anna's face, Emil would have to be careful not to be killed first.

The clock thrummed and the light coalesced, and Emil began spinning on his plate, taking in all available strategies.

Behind him was Victory Walk, which lead to the prep building; he could either try to escape through the thin slots in the stadia benches, or run to the end to the prep building and find a way through, which would lead to the station and probably the edge of the arena. But Victory Walk was long, and lended itself to making him a clear target to any Careers- and even if he opted to try and climb over or slide through the stadia, one option left him open to attack and the other held an unlikely chance of getting through, especially for someone of his age and build.

In front of him and around him lay the Training Building- a long road spanned in front of it, splitting left and right. The Training Center was an obvious choice for its size and familiarity, but every other tribute was equally familiar with it- not to mention its proximity to the Cornucopia pretty much ensured it was the Career pack's property now. Emil discarded it; flicked his gaze to the two branching roads to its left and right. They were the only sensible choices open to him.

But given how thin they were, and what little choice the rest of the tributes had as well, Emil knew they would be a bottleneck the hostile tributes could exploit to great bloodshed.

The world thrummed in tune to his rapid heartbeat. He looked back up to the golden lights- they read '15'.

Half his time was gone. Emil could hear the wails of several tributes now, the younger ones mostly, a couple of twelve and thirteen year olds who weren't ready to die, who didn't want to die.

Then, the laughter, high and elated, of Anna. She was laughing, her features almost marred by the twisted smile her muscles were forced into. She shot a grin at the first girl to start crying, who had abandoned sound for uncontrollable gasping sobs.

"You're first, kid."

Her voice echoed in the pit of buildings they stood at the bottom of. The District 9 girl, through her uncontrollable sobs, started taking gasping breaths, calming her spasming lungs.

The world thrummed and the clock ticked by, but the world stood still as the District 9 girl stared down Anna, the most dangerous tribute in the Games, with defiance in her bloodshot eyes.

"Yeah. I am."

Emil had barely time to gasp as the girl stepped off her plate.

The world thrummed, the light coalesced, and the air ignited as the landmines embedded beneath the girl's feet exploded. Blood, hot and wet, splattered across Emil's face.

Screams erupted around the circle of tributes. Emil could taste blood, and when he felt warm wetness in his hair he moved his hand to it and found ragged hunks of flesh, hot and wet and slick, embedded in his curls. He fought the urge to retch. He had to keep control of himself. It was just an emergency case at home again, his mother instructing him to hold down the patient as he screamed from a stab wound in his stomach. Nothing more, nothing more.

The world thrummed again and the clock ticked down to '9'. Emil looked up and met Cesal's gaze through the blood dripping down his face. Cesal was far enough away to have escaped the explosion's brunt; his face was largely clean but for a small spatter of droplets. His eyes were wide in horror, and he appeared to be mouthing something, maybe saying it, but the explosion was making Emil's ears ring and he couldn't hear a thing.

The clock seemed to be going faster. If Emil had a plan, the explosion had wiped it from his mind- the 9 girl (/had she been a 9 girl? Was she 10? 11?) was little more than disparate flesh stuck in his hair, and Anna was laughing louder, and he could see horror even on Theon's face. This wasn't what happened. This wasn't what happened in the Games, never.

Emil could feel the blood on his face, on his hands, in his hair. His grey outfit was swathed in new dye. In the sun, it was drying quickly, setting to his skin.

The thrums became louder, shook more. The clock ticked down to 4.

Emil had no idea, no idea what to do, what was happening. Anna was laughing but she was the only one, and Theon looked horrified, and Emma looked like she was about to throw up. The Careers were disparate and wheeling, and they were coated in blood they had not drawn.

_3_

Emil had been two plates away from the girl, but between him and her was the Seven tribute, Elizabeth, and she was drenched in not just blood but gore. Her hair was chestnut red, but now it was coated with a darker substance- Emil could see that it was sleek with the flesh it was covered in. Elizabeth was screaming; or, at least, had her mouth open in an approximation of one. Emil could not hear much at the moment beyond the thrumming of the Capitol's clock and his own ringing in his ears.

_2_

He could see Quint on the opposite end of the platforms, next to Cesal, his hands opening and closing repeatedly. If he was shocked by what had just happened he didn't show it; if he was afraid, little more than his reflexive clenching of hands into fists evidenced it. The calm of Quint's demeanour was almost something to latch onto- almost.

Emil saw a small backpack, close enough to his plate to be an easy target. His eyes latched onto it and didn't leave- suddenly, through the horror and the blood and the relentless thrumming of the ground, he had a target and a drive.

_1_

What surprised Emil was how quiet the arena was. In the Games he saw televised, there was always a muted fanfare played on top when the Games began, and Caesar Flickerman was always there to provide a commentary to the action. Here, however, silence reigned around the silent copy of the Capitol, as tributes sprinted from their plates.

Emil lurched forward, half-staggering to the backpack and reaching with bloodied fingers to grab it, stepping backwards and wheeling on the paved streets for grip as he readied himself to run, somewhere, anywhere.

But then he looked up.

Cesal was running; he stooped, grabbed up a knife from the outside of the Cornucopia and sprinted on. His eyes were locked on Emil. Suddenly Emil could not move.

He was little more than dead weight to Cesal, and he should have known, he should have known, that the alliance would only last as long as he was useful.

Around him, no birds sang; the world was still and silent.

And then a scream pierced through the silence, by the Cornucopia. The Twelve girl had been stabbed, his district partner, by Sheen Astara, the One boy.

Cesal grabbed his shoulder, hissed in his ear through the screams as he started dragging Emil away, lurching into a sprint.

"Come on, what the hell are you waiting for?! Move it!"

Emil's mouth was dry. All he could do was follow as Cesal took them sprinting left, past the Cornucopia again and down the road that passed by the Training Center.

Behind them, as they turned a corner and the Cornucopia left their sight, Emil could hear screams. He did not know what was going on. He did not know why he was alive.

There was flesh in his hair and it matted into his golden curls as it dried.

* * *

><p><em>Admittedly, yes, this is Sunday night and not Monday morning. However, I'm a shameless writing workaholic, and I have no self-control.<em>

_The next chapter is where we get to see all the action of the bloodbath- as a warning to those reading this in consecutive chapters, the next one is going to be gory and sweary. Unfortunately, I'm a stickler for intimate action, and with that comes the flesh and blood and f-bombs I usually try to restrain myself from. We'll still be T-rated, but on the upper limits, if you understand my meaning._

_As an aside, is everyone okay with how I'm portraying their characters? Some of you I haven't heard from since you sent in your characters, and I'm terrified I'm portraying them in a way you resent. If I'm doing them wrong, please don't hesitate to let me know!_

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	31. Nike

_With thanks to AbbyCoraby123 for your review of the previous chapter._

_This is the bloodbath. As such, this chapter I have not held back on my writing blood and gore. While I have endeavoured to keep this within T rating, I certainly believe the infrequent use of swearing and the graphic fighting puts this on the upper limit of the rating._

_Those with a nervous disposition, therefore, may not enjoy what is about to come._

* * *

><p><strong>Y 184-08-31 T 14:00:00<strong>

**Day 1**

* * *

><p>"<em>Je<em>- sus- _Christ_!" Seneca yelled, taking the stairs up from the Gamemaker's pit two at a time. "What in fucking hell was that?!"

Two banks of table screens in circles made up the head Gamemakers. While other technicians were in abundance in the warren-like corridors beneath the arena, within this small room was the powerhouse of the Games. The head technicians sat and took orders from Seneca or Lexus- other workers came in or out as was needed.

And right now, Seneca really needed his Head of Communications.

Lexus kept his eyes on the projected image to the Capitol; right now, a zoomed-out projection of the bloodbath. They got the footage as it happened, and a thirty-second delay was all that stood between them and the public.

And right now, they had already cycled the footage of the 9 girl stepping off her plate to the public.

Lexus shook his head furiously. "She just stepped off the plate- she just-"

"Jesus fucking- _Christ_!" Seneca screamed, snatching up a beautifully crafted pitcher of water and hurling it against the wall, the crystalline structure shattering and spraying water across the Gamemakers' pit went silent. Seneca Crane was not one for sudden outbursts, and this outpouring of violent anger seemed unprecedented even in the face of the chaos unfolding in front of them.

An aide rushed into the room. "The President's on the line, sir."

"If she wasn't dead, I'd kill her myself!" Seneca yelled to the arena above him, aiming obscenities at the girl who was little more than flesh now, the girl who had stepped from her plate even as she stared down Anna, even as tears streamed down her face.

He left the room in a swirling fury, leaving behind shattered glass and silence.

Lexus, aware of the vacuum of power this outburst had created, anxiously paced down to the bottom of the Gamemaker's pit and regarded the screen again.

"Okay, camera five bring it in- further back than that, don't want to muddy the viewpoint. That's it. Can someone try camera twenty-eight, it appears to be broken?"

"There's blood on the lens, sir."

"Then find a way to clean it and get ready to cut close to that one later. Okay, guys, let's make sure we can at least get a bloodbath right. Camera seven-"

* * *

><p>Elizabeth, frozen in time and drenched in the blood of a martyr, stood on her plate.<p>

In front of her, tributes were sprinting forwards to the Cornucopia. Sheen Astara, large and fast, was first to get to the cache of weapons within- he hefted a mace in one hand, and in one jerking movement swung it to connect with the Nine boy's jaw; the boy screamed and fell, his jaw ripped so far out of its socket by the metal that it had ripped the skin, his entire lower jaw hanging loosely against his chest as he howled. A Twelve girl tried to grab a backpack and run, but Sheen had already picked up a sharp instrument, like an awl but longer, and embedded it in her chest.

Her screams did not rouse Elizabeth- the sound of cannon fire overhead did.

Suddenly, stumbling and afraid, Elizabeth tore free, backing up, spinning and running away diagonally through the circle. She had to get out, but she needed supplies- something, anything.

A small carbon-fibre box, held together with plastic clasps, sat towards the edge of the circle. Elizabeth stooped and grabbed for it, ready to sprint forward- but she felt a huge pressure suddenly unload itself onto her back, and she went crashing down with the box, little more than the size of her head, clutched to her chest. She spun on the paved ground to see Chal standing over her, his eyes wild and his neck still faintly scarred. He held a small axe in his hands, and Elizabeth had seen plenty enough of those in her time not to know when it was being held correctly.

"Sorry, babe," Chal said with a grim smile, "But your little revo group keeps getting me more hurt than you."

Chal raised his axe, ready to cleave Elizabeth's neck, as a spear embedded itself in his brain. A short burst of blood set itself free from his skull, running in rivulets down a pristine steel surface. For a moment, he seemed to be still moving; as if he had not yet registered the magnitude of his own death. Then he crashed bonelessly to the ground, staring up at a fake sky, the disillusioned follower dead and his false prophet still living.

Elizabeth would have mourned, or panicked, or done something, but she knew that she had been seen as much as Chal had been. Gripping the box in one hand, she leapt forward for the axe, snatching it from Chal's still-warm fingers as she sprung upwards and sped in zigzagging directions away. A spear hit with a clang onto the ground at her heels, and then Elizabeth was entirely a creature of instinct, all thoughts of blood and strategy purged in the interest of pure, overwhelming drives to survive. There was the escape and nothing else, the ground beneath her feet and the muscles straining in her body. She wasn't built for speed, but her human body was built for survival, and she lived off of her species' desire to do so.

She ran down Victory Walk now, past the stadia she had ignited with screams when she had sent the horses of the chariots on a blind, instinctual, wheelng sprint. /How quickly the tables turn- now who's afraid of revolution? They've singed your nose with some burning paper, and look how you run.

She sprinted across the wide street to the stadia themselves, wriggling underneath the thin slot between the bench seats below and the ones above. It was a thin slot, but she was slim-built, and she reckoned she could make it through.

But halfway through the slot, a boy, District 11, perhaps fourteen, spotted her.

_No. No. Oh god, oh god no._

He flashed a small knife in his hand. Elizabeth was older, and stronger, but she was partially trapped beneath a bench, and she was pretty sure his district partner had been badly injured when the chariots had gone out of control.

What's to say he didn't want revenge?

Elizabeth gasped and tried to wriggle faster under the bench, but adrenaline lent her no finesse, and she was making little headway, and the boy was advancing faster, faster, his eyes full of hatred and his knife glinting in the sunlight.

But Elizabeth still had her grip on the axe, and it was in the hand not trapped on the other side of the stadia bench. As the boy came closer and swung downwards to her outstretched arm, she swung the axe clumsily into his hand.

And suddenly the knife was on the ground, and the boy was screaming, and he was clutching a bloodied stump for a wrist. He had sunk to his knees next to Elizabeth, and the course for her became all too clear.

She swung the axe again into his exposed stomach, and it stuck there. The boy howled, reached out blindly to try and stop Elizabeth- but she was stuck here, and the boy was too close, and she unstuck her axe and swung it again, again, lodging its edge into the boy like he was just so many logs she had to split to fill a quota.

But trees don't bleed, and trees don't scream for mercy.

The boy gasped, gurgled blood from his throat, and collapsed to the ground. A faint sucking sound could be heard where her axe had pushed into his lung.

No cannon sounded yet, but it was only a matter of time. Elizabeth kept swinging, stuck on the ground as blood began pooling closer to her. She wanted him to die. She wanted his pain to be over. She wanted to just keep hitting, sinking her axe into his flesh, over and over.

Finally, agonisingly, when the boy was little more than a moaning mess of flesh, a long final breath gurgled forth with a trickle of blood from the mess he had made of her throat. A cannon fired overhead. Elizabeth gasped in relief and horror, trying finally to extricate herself onto the other side of the stadia benches.

Ironically, the blood she had spilt made the job far more easy.

On the other side of the stadia, she was met with a mass of silent streets and wide monolithic buildings. She picked one at random and ran.

She was covered in the blood of three people, and none of it was her own.

* * *

><p>Lexus stared in horror as the Seven girl, lying horizontal under the bench, swung her axe over and over at the boy.<p>

"Hell." One of the technicians muttered. "Should we cut away?"

"No." Lexus muttered, before speaking up quickly. "No. It'll mix up continuity, people will wonder what's happening over there. Keep it on them until it's over."

The Eleven boy was moaning now, and he was slowly becoming little more than indiscriminate, bloody flesh, tangled in clothing. Lexus bit his lip sharply. "She just keeps hitting him- god, she's gotta know he's almost dead, he's almost dead, right?"

"Vitals are weakening, but we're not at nominal brain death yet. It'll call it when it reads no activity."

Lexus shook his head dully, trying not to retch at the sound of mangled flesh splitting at the dull cuts of the axe. "She's still hitting him."

"If you run over a dog, do you let it die slowly or do you run it over again to put it out of its misery?"

He turned- Communications head Josiah Lyman was at the door, leaning against the back of the Gamesmakers' pit room absently. Lexus shook his head.

"Generally I'd take the dog to hospital, Lyman."

"Yeah, well, Valerian, these guys don't have any incentive to do that. She's being merciful, really. The only way she can be merciful."

Lexus had seen many things he would call merciful, but reducing a person to a moaning pulp of flesh would not be one of those them. He returned to the camera feeds absently as he heard the relieving cannon.

"Okay, get ready to cut to camera two. Ready? And- now."

* * *

><p>Theon was stuck in chaos. Thankfully, he had trained in chaos since he had first been left on the streets, and it almost seemed familiar to the adrenaline in his veins.<p>

He leapt up to the Cornucopia, blood rushing in his veins as he saw dozens of potentially violent children flit in and out of his peripheral vision.

_Always keep spatial awareness, Theon,_ his false father hissed in his mind. Theon shifted unconsciously, eyes sharp, face flushed slightly from the sudden exertion. He could see his Careers making their way to the Cornucopia; Glace was already here, but most were nowhere near as quick as him.

_Weapon, Theon! Get a weapon!_ His father reminded him with a low voice tinged with fury. Theon cast his eyes across the crates of weapons. The sunlight cast through the crystal cornucopia split the light into rainbows of colour, and they shone upon his face, glinted upon the folded steel weapons. Theon picked up a machete quickly and turned back to address Glace.

He was only just fast enough to avoid the knife that whistled past his ear; and even then, he felt a jab of pain as the sharpened steel edge nicked it.

Glace was armed with a belt of throwing knives, and she had already picked out another from the wide webbing.

"What the hell are you-" Theon took in a breath sharply as Glace raised her arm like a whip, and ducked under the crates as the knife went whistling through the cornucopia, reflecting rainbows as it spun over his head.

Theon gripped his machete. Glace was a traitor, then. He should have noticed earlier that she wouldn't spar in front of anyone, that she barely spoke- she had kept herself an enigma on purpose and now he was a sitting duck.

He heard a scuffle of shoes, a grunt. In the distance were screams. Theon was in a glass cornucopia, and he had to move now, align the Careers together against Glace before he lost anyone too quickly.

He grabbed the crate he was hiding behind- a large box of water canteens- and hefted it, standing and throwing the box with all his might. Steel scattered and the plastic box cracked against a tribute's skull, and Theon vaulted over the other crates, driving down his machete into the tribute's skull.

He discovered as he watched blood spurting from the hole in the tribute's forehead that it was not Glace. It was Sheen Astara, lumbering and heavy, the tool of the Games, the tool of the Capitol. He had been high on the Games' odds board.

Now he stared unseeing at the machete sticking out of his skull, dug deep into the tissue of his brain. Glace must have lured him over, or attacked him, or something.

Theon had just killed Sheen Astara. He did not mourn him, but he felt he had dishonoured him in his death. They had been allies, and through accident or not, the cannon had just fired and proclaimed the death of the classic Career.

Theon pulled his machete, eyes boiling with fury, ready to attack the next person to make it worth his while. The mocking copy of the Capitol towered around him like the mountains of home.

There were screams, high and clear, on Victory Walk. Theon could see blood, and feel it drying on his hands. Tributes were running, dying, Glace was nowhere to be seen, and he had killed Sheen, and, god, where were Emma and Ronan? God, where were the Careers?

Theon, struck with an urge to find his bearings, clambered onto the slippery surface of the Cornucopia, getting a clearer view of the arena.

It was then that Theon realised he had missed a tribute from the list of Careers.

_Stupid_, his father chided him.

He heard her before he saw her, Anna Corinna, only too glad to be shed of the fetters of a Career alliance, sped towards him with a sword in hand. She was fast, but Theon was too, and as she sped forwards on the glass Cornucopia and swung he ducked under her attack, swiping up and raking the edge of her jacket but not hitting anything else before Anna lashed out with a savage kick, sending him sprawling.

"Too bad the Careers didn't work out," Anna shrugged, a savage smile on her face. "I would've enjoyed slicing your face up while you slept. Oh well-"

Theon was trying to scramble up, but she swept her sword casually across his chest. He pulled back, but not quickly, not quite quickly enough- he gasped, muted horror giving way to pain as he watched a thin line of blood emerge from the gash in his t-shirt. She had dug an inch deep into the flesh of his stomach and chest, and it hurt, it hurt so much, god, he couldn't breathe. The tang of blood, iron and sharp, hit his nose with cloying strength.

He collapsed back, eyes wide, horribly unable to do much more than scramble back as Anna advanced. She was enjoying herself; she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, giggling like a girl her age should, but it was like a funhouse mirror; distorted, sinister, darkened by the shadows behind her eyes.

_Weak_, his father hissed._ You kill Arya to get this far, and you can't survive even the bloodbath._

A surge of anger, uncontrolled, unlike himself so much it was nothing Anna, his district partner, his former sparring partner, had ever seen. He fought Anna, but to him he fought the shadowy grasp his fake father had held over him since those dark, dark days after his real father's death.

He grabbed at her hand holding the sword; he had broken several of her fingers before her elbow slammed into his jaw, but he had anticipated the action and ducked back, stepping forward again with his long leg pushed into Anna's abdomen.

Anna went flying backwards from the slippery Cornucopia, and Theon launched himself in the opposite direction, weaponless and equipmentless and injured but alive. He flew with pure adrenaline, running from the Career pack, from Anna; from the grasp of his father's screams.

He was alone, and he'd probably be dead before the end of the week, but god if he wasn't free.

* * *

><p>Lexus stared silently at the cameras.<p>

"-Sir?"

Lexus did not answer.

"-Mr Valerian?"

His neck clicked slightly as he moved it rapidly to the speaking technician. "Hm?"

"-Should we cut to a recap or cut back to camera six?"

"-In a moment. Yeah. Cut to recap."

The footage switched to some cut-together close-ups of the bloodbath, of Theon slaying Sheen, of a spear cutting through Chal's head, of a pulpy, moaning mass of flesh without any face, without any throat. Lexus closed his eyes.

"Josiah, go sit in on Seneca's call. He needs someone to spin him shit to the President."

"Professional bullshitter on the way." Without looking around, Lexus knew he was the recipient of either a mocking salute or a sincere middle finger.

He couldn't bring himself to care. He sat down heavily on the floor, ignoring the technicians asking him if he was okay.

It was one thing watching the Games, but this- the intimacy of it, a tribute beating another to death in the ironic tang of Victory Walk, its stones stained in blood; Lexus could not reconcile it.

Someone handed him a glass of something. He drank it without looking at what it was, shuddering.

"Okay." He croaked. "While Seneca's gone- switch out to camera six. And- cut it."

* * *

><p><em>And with that, the bloodbath is over. Originally I intended to add in Quint as well, but frankly making my deadline on even 3K words today was a struggle. Ah well, I'm reallt not a fan of switching narratives mid-chapter anyway.<em>

_Thoughts? I'd love to hear reactions on this one. _

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	32. Hermes

_With thanks to Glassgift and AbbyCoraby123 for your reviews of the last chapters. :)_

* * *

><p><strong>Y 184-08-31 T 14:00:00<strong>

**Day 1**

* * *

><p>Quint had been lucky to survive- he wouldn't count it as anything else. The bloodbath was well named; he had seen so much, too much, in the past few minutes.<p>

His face and grey clothing were covered in a fine mist of blood from when the Nine girl had jumped off the plate.

He had acted as clearly as he could, just as he had rehearsed in his head; he had grabbed up the closest two things to his plate (a water canteen and a plastic crate, just small enough for him to heft under his arm) and run for the closest exit; he opted for the right-hand road running past the Training Center.

Of course, that's when the spear had thudded dully into his crate, trapping his grey jacket against the plastic, and Quint broke into a sprint, instinctual and uncontrolled, just how he hated it. He should have looked back and seen who had thrown the spear, but he had been, admittedly, in a state of panic at the time, and he had sprinted away without so much as removing the spear pinning him to his crate.

The streets were wide and paved with a mix of granite and marble; the stone and steel of the Inner City rose high around him. Quint ran on, regaining his calm as he got further from the uncontrolled chaos of the Cornucopia. He took a sharp left turn onto another, more thin and winding street, feeling his muscles burn at the exercise he rarely did.

The skies were a thin sliver above his head- the alleyway he found himself in was so thin, and the buildings were so tall around him, that he was obscured in a valley of shadows. The buildings on each side of him held doors- Quint disliked being this close to the chaos, being only ten minutes from the Cornucopia in the Inner City, but he needed to hole up while the cannons were still firing intermittently, shaking the ground beneath his feet. Pocketing his canteen, he tried the door to his left- it came open without any resistance.

Quint slid in and shut the door as quietly as possible- to his frustration, there were no locks on either side. He decided it was a problem he would fix in a few minutes- for now, he had greater problems to fix.

He cast about the lobby he found himself in. He had been expecting much the same as the seventy-third Games; the ruined city of those Games had held a few complete buildings, but they had been bare concrete, brick and rubble.

The warm lobby Quint found himself in was, while not luxuriant to the point of excess like the real Capitol, was decorated to an extent he would never see in any of the homes at his home district. The carpet beneath his feet was a plush cream colour; a mahogany table rested against the walls, which were covered in a luxurious purple patterned wallpaper.

Quint would have laughed. Even in a false Capitol, there was still an excess beyond reasoning. But this time, it was his, and Quint intended to utilise it to his own use.

He put down the crate and grabbed the heavy mahogany table, scraping it across the carpeted floor and propping it against the door. With his building secured, at least partially, Quint picked up his crate again and started up the wide spiral staircase, listening intently for any movement. While he doubted he'd have the bad luck to run into another tribute this early in such a sprawling arena, he hadn't come this far to die because of his own poor judgement.

His next priority, now he had barred the door, was to ascertain the layout of the building. While it was really just a holdup to survive today and tonight, Quint had learnt from his time on the tracks that to know your layout was to survive. Once, in the middle of the night, the train had broken down- the inter-district cargo shuttle he had been working on couldn't afford torches, and so he had fixed the problem blind. His knowledge of the layout of his train saved his life; it had still been rattling along the tracks, with the hydraulic brakes broken, so when he and another engineer had climbed out onto the thin maintenance tracks on the outside of the carriage, a single misstep in the dark had sent the other engineer on a short trip under the tracks, a rolling train unstoppable under his torso.

He had screamed for hours before someone with a sharpened pole could locate him and put him out of his misery.

Quint never stayed somewhere without knowing the layout of the place, and now would be no exception now he was in a fake city with dozens of people only looking to kill.

The spiral staircase was lined with glass, making it impossible to fall from as he climbed the stairs. The safety precaution seemed almost laughable given the circumstances; Quint wondered if the unusual choice was not that of the arena but an endeavour to copy an existing building. It seemed to be an apartment block, with differing styles on every floor- every one was glittering and opulent, with a perhaps bare set of furniture but the trappings that Quint would expect in a Capitolian's home, with fur rugs and thick carpets.

After some climbing and careful exploration of the building Quint found there were five floors, including the ground floor- each was rougly the size of the dining room in the Training Room apartments, with a wide, luxuriant living area and meagre sleeping and eating arrangements. It harkened to a people who barely slept, who always ate out, who only used their apartments for social occasions and nothing else- they were intended as decorative art pieces, not homes.

It was almost upsetting to Quint, to think of a people so unable to emotionally connect that they resorted to surface impressions to understand one another.

He picked the apartment on the top floor, an arrangement of pale pastel colours and a plush carpet that his shoes sank into, setting himself up in the small bedroom adjacent to the luxuriant living space. The bed was utilitarian but soft, and if he had not experienced similar beds in the Training Center he would have sunk into it then and there. But he sat, instead, on the edge, and laid out his spoils; the water canteen and the plastic crate, shot through with the spear that had taken a scrap of his jacket with it when he had pulled it free from his clothing. Quint carefully eased the spear free, lying it in precise vertical parallel to the bed- raising both hands to the crate, he flicked open the clasps and raised the lid.

The crate was carefully lined with foam, crafted to contain the six bottles within it. Each were clear, with equally clear liquid inside, neatly printed labels on their sides. Quint raised one to inspect it, the bottles familiar to his memory. Finally, as he read the long words on the label stamped with the seal of Panem, they clicked in his head- when his parents had first died, long ago, the grant he had recieved for their death had passed to his grandfather, and his grandfather had mostly used the money to purchase some expensive and high-quality Capitol medicines for his medical issues. The clear liquid ceased the rattling in his grandfather's lungs, brought colour back to his cheeks- it was nothing short of miraculous.

But the medicine had run out, as it inevitably would, and the tight breaths returned and lethargy returned to his demeanour. Quint did not begrudge his grandfather for buying the medicines- he had cared for him for years, and he had never seen him as happy as when he was temporarily free of illness.

Now, he held bottles that could save his grandfather at home; but he was no longer there to take care of him, to provide food, to keep him alive.

Quint held a panacea between his fingertips, but it was useless in this fake city of worthless excess.

Carefully, reverently, he returned the medicines to their crate and replaced the lid. He didn't know what to do with them- he didn't even understand what they did. But they were valuable, and while they were his he would protect them.

He looked around his stolen bedroom. A single window, small and high-set, looked out onto the city. Quint stood and looked out onto the city, leant against the wall next to the window so as not to be directly visible.

Silence, sunlight, shadow. From five floors up, Quint could see the extent of the arena- and it was a true copy of the Capitol, right up to the basin of mountains it sat in and the reservoir beyond. If he didn't know better, he would of said he was in the real expanse of the outdoors.

He wondered where the arena ended. He was an engineer, and the problem's solution presented itself to him. Tomorrow, he was going to go sightseeing.

The sun was lowering in the sky, turning from a canary yellow to deep, blood-red crimson.

* * *

><p><em>With the next chapter, the catch-up for the bloodbath will be over. I must say, I'm really enjoying seeing these chapters working out as I planned them to. I'm really enjoying laying hints for the future as well; hopefully they'll be subtle enough to keep you guessing until I fulfil the foreshadowing.<em>

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	33. Athena kai Ares

With thanks to Glassgift for your review of the last chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Y 184-08-31 T 14:00:00<strong>

**Day 1**

* * *

><p>She had not expected this to happen. She hadn't known what Ronan had been planning behind his enigmatic blue eyes, merely that she knew he was more of an enigma than he let on in his casual persona.<p>

She hadn't known until they raced off the plates and Ronan had grabbed her by the shoulder and told her in low tones to get a weapon and as many backpacks as she could carry, and get ready to run.

With that, Ronan had split from her, picked up two long spears, and with the accuracy of a District 4 former spear-fisher threw it directly into Chal Detria's brain.

Emma choked slightly. Ronan had just told her to get ready to run- had just killed Anna's target. He had betrayed the Careers and now intended to do more. But she couldn't afford to lose all of her allies at once. The choice was split-second and damning.

Emma swallowed heavily and spun on her heels, working quickly while the majority of the Careers went to the opening of the Cornucopia. She slung four backpacks over her shoulder, before picking up a large, double-edged sword with a thick blade and hefting it in her hand. She caught sight of a flicker of movement in her periphery- coming up behind her.

Her caramel hair flung outwards in a wide arc as she brought the sword down onto the Three girl's neck. It was as quick a death as Emma could deliver; the Three girl's neck, cut cleanly open to the bone, gushed high-pressure blood, and the girl collapsed backwards, a small knife glinting in one hand and a small backpack in the other.

Emma fought the urge to retch at the devastation she had wrought, yanked the backpack from the dead girl's hands and added it to her collection- while light, Emma reckoned five was all she could run with comfortably, and cast around for Ronan. He had collected as many backpacks and drawstring bags as his shoulder could take, and held another two spears in his hand. One he threw at Elizabeth's head, but she was too far out and it thudded uselessly just a few inches to the left. He fired the final spear at Quint Barkwater, but it thudded dully into the plastic crate under his arm, and with that Ronan was out of chances. He swore, snatched up a machete, and caught up with Emma, nodding appreciatively at her decision to follow his lead.

As Emma and Ronan turned to run, Theon Veux went barrelling past them, eyes wild, his grey shirt soaked in blood. Emma raised her sword defensively; but he didn't even notice, didn't even care, he just sprinted away. Ronan turned to try and pursue him, but Emma had absolutely no intention to hunt down the Careers, even if they were abandoning them for whatever reason Ronan had come up with; she gripped Ronan by the upper arm and began to run, forcing him to follow her lead. While she might be going along with Ronan's weird plan, she had no interest in just standing passively while he directed the action. She chose to lead them up Victory Walk, which was already beginning to be paved in blood.

Skirmishes and fallen tributes lined the wide road Emma had chosen; some, mortally wounded, howled like an animal as they writhed on the ground. One, young and small, the Twelve girl, stared mutely at the long awl-like object embedded in her stomach. Emma knew that such injuries could take hours, if not days, to die from- she had seen enough fishing and training accidents at home to know that. As they flew across Victory Walk, Emma pulled back her arm and swung it forward. The sword cut deep into a mix of the girl's neck and face. A cannon fired as a mutilated child crumpled to the ground face- first, her back still arched from the awl forcing it upwards. Slowly, as gravity took its course, the body slid to the ground and the awl pushed through all the way, pointing straight up in the air as if to challenge the heavens.

Emma ran on, shifting her backpacks on her shoulder. They reached the end of Victory Walk, sped through the opening the chariots had come through not so long ago- _no, _Emma reminded herself, _in the real Capitol they did, but this is too quiet to be the real Capitol, I can still hear the screams at the Cornucopia from half a mile away_- and they found themselves at the opening of the Remake Center, enclosed within the small courtyard the chariots had hidden in before the chaos of the chariot ride had begun. To the side was the door to the Center.

Ronan sighed. "They'll have locked all these things." With that, he dipped his shoulder to face the door, and sprinted to collide with it.

Emma watched, biting her lip so as not to smile, as the already-unlocked door burst open and Ronan went sprawling onto the ground.

"Remind me why I left the Careers for you?" She replied, stepping over Ronan and only slightly kicking his side as she did so. Ronan grumbled as he stood up, dusted himself off, gently closed the door, and proceeded to give Emma's back the middle finger.

"So," Emma said, her voice slightly echoing inside the empty corridor, "What's with you? Why'd we just paint a huge Career target on our backs? I mean, you killed Anna's target then abandoned the group. You know as well as them that those things are unforgivable."

"That group was a train wreck in slow motion," Ronan said. "Theon and Anna were clashing for power, Sheen's too dumb to live, and Glace- fuck knows what Glace was all about. She had eyes like a shark."

"So, what? Get out before they all kill each other?"

"Sure."

"And at no point in time it occurred to you to _maybe_ let me in on this?!"

"Sorry, kid, I didn't want to risk anything. If you had even slightly projected an intent of abandoning the group, they would've gone for you immediately. You know that."

Emma couldn't argue with Ronan's logic- Careers were well known for even killing loyal members under the suspicion they were about to cut free from the pack. "Don't 'kid' me," she decided to reply, before picking a corridor and turning left down it. "So what, we find somewhere to hide out with these heavy-as-shit supplies?"

"I was thinking we find somewhere to dump these heavy-as-shit supplies, and we go hunting before we get hunted- it'll look better, we might get more sponsors."

Emma laughed. "See, this is why Dad kept marking you down on tactics," she replied. "On the first night? Ronan, we don't know the layout of this place. We don't know who's dead. We find somewhere to hole up, we wait it out for the death announcements, and_ then _we decide what to do. Sound good?"

"If there isn't any food in these backpacks, I'm going hunting anyway."

"Good to know you think with your stomach, that'll be a great survival factor in /the Hunger Games."

"Shut up and take the left, we need to find the exit to this place."

* * *

><p>Emma and Ronan emerged into daylight, their eyes squinting to adjust back to it after the dark, cavernous halls of the Remake Center. They stood in a strange circular courtyard, surrounded by buildings.<p>

"What's this thing?" Ronan mumbled.

"I think they showed it on TV a few years back," Emma said, vague memories coming back in scraps. "The Games Headquarters. This is the courtyard."

"Damn," Ronan hummed. "They've got even bigger egos than I thought." He gestured to the ground, and Emma raised an eyebrow at the huge seal of Panem paved into the ground, the wings of the eagle outstretched to touch two buildings- one, mostly steel with no windows, which Emma couldn't remember the name of but was certain was the place the Gamemakers resided. The other, mostly glass, was far more recognisable.

"City Studios," Ronan said. "Guess I'll be going back a lot quicker than I thought."

Emma chuckled, but the implications were dark. Ronan was so cocky about his impending win, and Emma's consequent death, that he was confident enough to talk about it with her in earshot.

She clenched her sword a little harder in her hand as she followed him into City Studios.

"You think Caesar Flickerman's in?" Emma quipped, looking around the foyer. Beautifully and almost tastefully adorned in rich blues and purples, they were walking into a building where the byword was luxury.

"I dunno, but I bet his studio is," Ronan grinned. "I'm sure I can do a better job than that wigged maniac can."

Emma took a wide staircase to the second floor of the foyer, looking down on Ronan with a smile. "Yeah, but that wigged maniac's probably putting commentary to that right now."

"Shit." Ronan said, groaning up the stairs to follow her. "I keep forgetting this place must be crawling in cameras."

"Remind me why we're in City Studios, then?" Emma tried a door down a thin corridor, and it clicked open into darkness. "This looks good."

The room, not touched by the light of the fake arena sun, was impossible to gauge for anything- its abiding darkness made it impossible to see. Emma stood still to allow her eyes to adjust, while Ronan barrelled forwards.

And, as her eyes adjusted to see him, barrelled down the shallow stairs.

"Son of a-" Ronan picked himself up. "The hell's this place?"

Emma, relying on what little she could see in the shadows, found the wall and roamed her hands over it. A few seconds and she had the plastic switch she was hoping for, and the lights flicked on.

They looked around at the huge studios, the hundreds of seats, the cameras and the familiarly decorated stage.

"Now _this_ is a place to stay," Ronan grinned. He leapt down the rest of the steps and up onto the stage.

"Lights, camera-"

"-If you say action, I'm going back to the Careers."

"Action!" Ronan announced, flashing a very Caesar-esque smile to the cameras. "I'd make a good Flickerman, don't ya think?"

"Nah," Emma replied, climbing up to the stage and putting down her backpacks with a loud thud, "You gotta look more fake than that. Pretend you care about everyone, act like you're not sending off a load of kids to their deaths with a smile."

"Now who's forgetting the cameras?" Ronan chided, putting down his own packs and sitting cross-legged amongst the pile. "There is no way in hell they won't mute that, or switch to someone else."

Emma shut her mouth with an audible click. She wasn't used to the concept of her every move being watched- she was starting to feel hounded by the omnipresence of the cameras she couldn't spot in the luxurious building. "Shut up and open the backpacks."

They sat amongst a pile of their new belongings; although their purpose was to try and survive in the arena, Emma was still content. New possessions were few and far between, even in District 4; to suddenly own this amount of new material was almost overwhelming to her. She cast her eyes across the pile.

"So, ration packs, water purification tablets, tarp sheets, a coupla sleeping bags-" Emma listed off. Ronan jumped in enthusiastically. He seemed to be truly enjoying himself.

"-Bottles of water, matches, paracord and a toolbox. Add that to your sword and my machete, and we basically own everything you'd ever need and more."

"We're not exactly travelling light, though."

"Who needs to? We basically have a mini Cornucopia, we can just use it as our base."

"Yeah, but the Cornucopia can't be dragged away. We need to hide everything we don't need immediately."

"Yeah?" Ronan said, gesturing to the large pile of equipment and empty backpacks. "How's that gonna work out?"

Emma smirked. Emotionally, she was still shaken, but she had always been good at tactics- the games allowed her to switch off everything but the Career she had been trained to be, indirectly. She picked up some backpacks, threw one at Ronan and kept one in her hand. A ration pack and a sleeping bag went to each, as well as a water bottle. Then, Emma spread out one of the tarps. She packed everything she could into the remaining backpacks and laid it all onto the tarp. Then, grabbing some paracord, she began making it into a rudimentary net.

"We're on a stage, right? So there's probably some sort of pulley system keeping things up backstage. Go check."

Ronan seemed faintly indignant at being told what to do by a girl three years his junior, but he went behind the stage with only a little bit of mutinous grumbling. Emma quickly finished the net, laid it out, and slid the tarp on top. Ronan came back around the side.

"We're in luck."

"Great- help me drag this." Emma pulled the net taut, until it had become the container for the tarp, which prevented anything spilling out. It was simple, but it would do the trick.

The two of them found an empty pulley- Emma looped some paracord around the net she had created, and Ronan threw it over the pulley with unending accuracy. The two of them pulled their new store of goods into the air until it hung out of reach and sight to anyone who wouldn't know to look up, and tied it down to the ground.

"Okay," Ronan said, slightly breathless at the exertion of hoisting the bundle, "I vote we eat."

"I can tell already that rationing you is going to be a nightmare," Emma sighed, following him back to the stage.

Outside the building, the sun was setting.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for the delay, guys- but I've been exhausted these past few days, and I wasn't writing anything near the standard of work acceptable.<em>

_I'm still not sure about this chapter, mind. The journey took longer than I expected it to, and while I don't believe it's obvious, there is a continuity error within this chapter that unfortunately I can't edit out without a serious amount of retconning in earlier chapters. It's only small and insignificant, and won't affect the story so long as you're not keeping precise track of the arena and the Capitol._

_To make up for the delays, this weekend will have double-chapter days- I'll be posting another chapter later tonight, and Sunday will be doubled up as well._

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	34. Murti

_With thanks to AbbyCoraby123 and Glassgift for your reviews of the last chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>Y 184-08-31 T 18:34:42<strong>

**Day 1**

* * *

><p>The sky looked realistic, but small things betrayed how false it was. Cesal, even having grown up in a factory district, had seen the vista of the sky- it was a private pleasure of his to look up at the sky and see the majesty of the unending, rolling clouds. But here, in this dome, there were no vistas- there were clouds, but even though they looked perfectly real they couldn't emulate depth of field. They seemed to hang, stagnant in a sky that ended at some point only a few miles away.<p>

Cesal wanted to find where the sky ended.

Emil, however, was less enthusiastic about the concept.

"Look, it's the first night," Emil gasped as he tried to match Cesal's fast pace. "Careers are gonna be out hunting people down, everyone's on edge, there is no reason to_- can you slow down, please?!"_

"You gonna say please to the Careers on your ass?"

"You gonna slow down?"

Cesal sighed and slowed his pace. "You know, I thought you'd be, you know, a typical Twelve kid. Quiet and useless and shit."

"Sorry to disappoint." Emil replied, his voice dry. He pushed his blood-soaked hair from where it fell in front of his eyes, before pulling up his backpack. "I thought you'd be a typical Eight guy, too."

"And how do I fall short of the typical Eight guy?"

"Well-"

They had been walking for some time, and the fake sun had turned from golden to crimson to a deep, bruised orange as it spread its colour pink across the skies that weren't quite right. It was a funhouse mirror sky, reflected in the spired glass buildings of the Capitol's Outer City.

And now, with finality, the sun slid beneath the fake horizon, and the two stood still as the skies suddenly and unnaturally darkened. Stars were visible in the sky. A moon loomed over them. The air cooled with an immediacy that chilled Cesal to the bone.

And then, above, making the entire arena thrum as if it were about to fall on their heads, 'Horn of Plenty' blared and the skies lit up with a seal. The two of them looked up in the dark, the glass buildings around them glittering silver in the light.

The seal of Panem faded and was replaced with the first face of the dead.

Cesal choked on his own spit.

"Holy _shit_," he murmured.

"Sheen Astara?" Emil murmured. "He was six-six and made of muscle."

"Congrats, kid," Cesal managed. "You're probably the first Twelve kid to outlast a One Career."

"Same for you."

Sheen's face faded, replaced by a girl's. Not the One girl's, not Anna Corinna's, so District 3. He liked District 3. He hoped she had died quickly.

Faces flicked past like so many pages in a book, like figures forgotten as soon as they were read. Victors lived in glory, tributes were forgotten, surviving only as lip service to the dead, names on a list.

They would survive as names, photographs; not the flesh and blood they had been, viscera and fury, power and strength.

The District 9 tributes flicked by as the anthem played. Cesal realised the girl was survived only by what was left of her in Emil's hair.

District 11's boy, District 12's girl, and the fanfare ended and the unnatural darkness returned. Cesal still stared at the sky, the stars that looked too close when projected on the screen of a dome.

"What was her name?" He asked.

"What?" Emil had already stopped looking at the sky; was already walking on.

"The girl. The Nine girl."

"You expect me to remember her name?"

"You remembered the name of the guy I volunteered for, kid, I expect you to have remembered it."

Emil tilted his head slightly. He closed his eyes and took a breath. Cesal squinted at him suspiciously.

"-The hell are you doing?"

Emil frowned slightly. "Remembering her name."

"...Are you trying to contact her spirit to ask?"

Emil pursed his lips slightly. "I've filed it somewhere, I have to access it."

"That's bulls-"

Cesal's words died in his throat. Around him, the glass buildings of the Outer City flickered, then glowed. The entire city, driven by the night, burst into light; the Inner City was largely walls of stone, but the Outer City was made of glass and steel, and it was resplendent in lights.

"The city that never sleeps," Cesal murmured, the words of a thousand Capitol propos on his tongue. "We're in daylight the whole time." He turned, but Emil still had his eyes closed.

"Hey, kid. Kid. Emil!"

Emil's eyes opened to the artificial daylight replacing the artificial night.

"Quit with the name thing, it doesn't matter." Cesal took off, this time at the same pace as before, and this time he didn't care if Emil told him to slow down. Thankfully, Emil seemed to have realised the danger they were newly in, and jogged to keep up without arguing.

"At night, even with Careers out in force, we'd have the advantage, because they don't have a direction and we do. But now, with everything lit up, we're as vulnerable as in daylight. I guess we're going to be taking your advice after all, kid."

"So we're taking a building?"

"Inner City's too obvious, too close to the Cornucopia, and with one Career dead they'll be looking for easy kills from the idiots in windowless buildings; I would. So we take an Outer City building, stay away from the windows, and stay in a floor that's high but not the top, somewhere that isn't obvious. A big building, one they wouldn't bother to check the entirety of. Something like-"

"That?" Emil managed, pointing.

The towering skyscraper of Valerian Tower, only outflanked by the pillar of the Training Tower, spired glass shining into the skies that weren't real.

"That's obvious and tacky and I love it." Cesal quipped. "You're about to get lessons in how to survive building assaults."

"I'd prefer the lessons on climbing stairs."

"What the hell did you think I meant by building assaults, kid?"

* * *

><p>They stood in a beautiful apartment. It was almost half-and-half, red and black combined, the darkness flecked with red and the red flecked with shining, sparkling black. The carpets were soft, the beds luxurious, and the fridge empty. Cesal moaned into the fridge.<p>

"Come _on_, I just climbed fifteen stories for this bullshit, and no food? There's sixteen lamps in this place and not even a cookie? Fuck the Capitol, man!"

"While we're inevitably muted for the next few minutes, want to come over here and find out what we've got?" Emil called from the living area. Cesal muttered about where he'd put what Emil got as he walked through, scrupulously avoiding getting too close to any windows as he flopped down onto a couch that was softer than any bed he'd ever had, deep red with black highlights. Emil sat on a couch with opposite colours, rooting through his backpack.

"Well? We got a gun or a whistle?" Cesal quipped.

"Neither." Emil pulled out a long length of bundled wire and dropped it to the ground in spools. Cesal groaned.

"Well, this lucky bag's going great. Anything else?"

Emil silently picked up the other piece of equipment in the pack and threw it onto Cesal's lap. Cesal picked it up.

"Oh my god."

"Yeah."

"That's fitting for the Capitol."

"It's fitting for a Justice Building."

Cesal stared at the object in his lap. "You know I used to stare at one of these things every day in school?"

"Used to?"

"I'd explain what happened to it but there's cameras everywhere." Cesal chuckled lowly. "A tiny-ass knife, some wire and this. We're probably the worst off of any tribute in the history of the Games."

"At least we have each other."

"Did you just make a joke, Emil? I think you just made a joke."

"Contrary to popular belief it's possible."

Cesal laughed, stood, and placed the stylised image of President Snow on the mantlepiece. "You, me, and Mr Snow, baby. I'm gonna see if there's any snacks hidden under the mattress."

Cesal was almost to the bedroom when Emil said it.

"Astara Vienna."

Cesal turned. "What?" He said lowly. It sounded familiar, he was sure, but-

"You asked before." Emil's tone was dark. "The Nine girl's name. Astara."

Cesal stood in a doorframe. Astara Vienna. The girl who had jumped off her plate, the girl who had defied the Careers and in doing so defied the Capitol, had a name. Astara Vienna was the blood matted into Emil's hair.

He wasn't sure why he cared so much.

"Take the bed, go to sleep," Cesal muttered. "I'll take first watch."

* * *

><p>The night was dark and as Emil slept, Cesal knew he could not. He had been half-hoping for sleeping pills in the backpack, but it was a long shot and a hope of a desperate man and he knew it.<p>

Without sleeping pills, he would go without sleep until he crashed from exhaustion.

And exhaustion would make him vulnerable.

Cesal looked down at the knife he flipped in his hands. One flick to an artery, and Emil's life would be over while he slept. He'd barely know he was dead.

Cesal looked into the night.

He flipped the knife in his hands.

* * *

><p><em>As ever, thank you for reading this far.<em>


	35. Puja

_With thanks to Glassgift, AbbyCoraby123, Katrace, and akuhilangditelanbumi for your reviews of the last chapters._

* * *

><p><strong>Y 184-08-31 T 21:00:03<strong>

**Day 1**

* * *

><p>"-And with the death lists done and the sun gone, I too will sign off for the evening. But worry not, Panem- I leave you in the hands of my exceptionally capable collague, Dalton Roche, for the evening coverage of the first night of the Hunger Games. But for now, Panem, it's a goodbye from me, Caesar Flickerman, and a goodbye to the tributes. Goodnight, Panem."<p>

The screens triumphantly announced 'Horn of Plenty' as it displayed the Capitol TV logo and faded into Dalton Roche's more subdued commentaries of the Games. Deaths flashed upon the screen.

Chal Detria's skull exploded with a steel bolt, fired all over again into his head, over and over. Loops of brain matter could be seen in the high definition, clinging to the steel spike emerging from the boy's forehead.

Sisyphia had to look away.

She had not loved Chal Detria, for all her insistence to sponsors that he was a wonderful tribute, really. She had not even afforded affection or respect for the boy; he seemed charming enough, but something in his countenance had presented a strong red flag to her mind. He had seemed too confident, too uncaring of his surroundings- something seemed almost emotionless in his tone.

And when he had stood over Elizabeth with an axe in his hand, Sisyphia could privately admit she felt hatred for him, for betraying his district partner and ally.

But when that spear had emerged from his head and blood had gushed from around the metal pole; Sisyphia could not, would not, watch. Chal had been wrong, had been callous, he had been to the end, but he was a child. God, he was- what? Half her age? Maybe even younger than that?

Sisyphia adusted her candy-pink jacket and deep green flowing skirt, at a loss of what else she could do. Around her, others seemed to understand where to go, what to do, how to smile at meeting a child and then watching them die- everyone else seemed to know.

The screens at the Training Center, she had been told later, were often given the same footage as the Gamesmakers, without a delay of thirty seconds, as often it was ideal for any major players working in the escort and prep teams to see their tributes in live action, without Flickerman's constant speech over the far more crucial alliance speeches the escorts needed to hear. Unfortunately, it also meant they didn't have the luxury of ignorance, and saw the brutality of Anna Corinna and the 'accident' Chal then went through.

Chal's injury hadn't been an accident. Chal's injury was as much accident as his eventual death was. Sisyphia didn't believe she had to watch a child get his throat cut and then watch Caesar Flickerman call it an accident. It felt like someone was mocking her, somewhere- that she had gotten up this high, into an escort position, and now she had to watch a bloodshed she hadn't signed up for.

She hadn't signed up for this.

"Hey, Sisyphia! Congratulations!" Someone called from what felt like underwater. She looked up from her blank stare at the screen, to a young assistant with a bottle of something.

"What?" She scraped out, before recognising that in present company a more formal response would be acceptable. "Oh, well," she managed to add in before he could respond, "I mean, I'm happy, thank you, but what is there to congratulate me about?"

She had watched her two tributes, one dying trying to kill the other; the other had reduced a boy to a quivering, moaning mass of blood and flesh, while blood matted into her hair. There was nothing to congratulate Sisyphia for; she had done nothing but damned these children to die.

"Well," a girl said from the crowd of prep team workers, "We got someone out- and with a weapon! Shame they went for each other, but they were quite uncivilised, these ones. It's great we're not left with Chal, too- Elizabeth's a fighter."

"Chal was better!" Interjected a young man excitedly.

"Woah, woah, no way-"

And Sisyphia was forgotten again as the tide of conversation swept over her again. She found, for once, she really didn't want to listen to what they had to say. It felt trivial. It felt mocking.

She stood, finding her muscles shivering uncontrollably. She smiled and made her exit, quickly, too quickly. She knew she would be talked about in suspicious tones he second the elevator doors shut behind her.

As the metal box sunk to the ground, she found she didn't care.

She walked out into the night, warm air flowing softly against her arms, muffled against her wig. She struggled for a moment, then threw propriety to the wind. Her wig followed suit, hanging in limp curls between her fingertips as she bared her own hair, kept in scrupulous, if shorter, curls, to the elements.

She could hear the calls outside the Presidential Mansion behind her, calls of triumph she had heard so many times before, since childhood. The calls of her people, celebrating the dead.

_"Hunger! Hunger! Hunger!"_ The mantra rang, sung by the Capitol, her Capitol. They would party into the late hours tonight, gambling and drinking and eating and drinking more to throw up more to eat more and gamble more-

Sisyphia found herself standing in the middle of Victory Walk, wide and paved, beautiful and majestic. Around her, buildings towered, tall and monolithic, stone slabs covered in wide red sashes of colour and splashed with the seal of Panem.

She stood there, in silence, staring at the dark skies, the stone buildings watching her, the glass spires that towered beyond the granite.

This was her home.

And tonight, she had watched it bathed in blood.

Eventually, the rain came, and it ran in rivulets down her makeup, dragging black tears of mascara down her face, pulling her glossed lips into a fake grimace. She closed her eyes to the rain, feeling it patter against her face, trying not to think of where someone had stood in a direct copy of her city, her home, and felt a liquid of far more vital nature coat their face.

Sisyphia listened to her people chanting 'hunger' like it was their deliverance.

For the first time, she realised it was their sacrifice.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for being so supportive about my temporary absence- I'll endeavour not to do that again. In the meantime- the bloodbath and the recaps are now officially over. From here on in, it's open season structurally- we can move away from SYOT format as much as we want to. This is the part I've been waiting to start since we began.<em>

_As ever, thanks for reading this far._

_Now- shall we?_


	36. Darshan

_With thanks to Glassgift for your review of the last chapter._

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><p><strong>Y 184-08-31 T 22:36:06<strong>

**Day 1**

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><p>The night had faded into oblivion again as the seal of Panem had been wiped from the sky, the same way as the sun had prematurely set.<p>

Glace held a blade in her hand where she sat, cross-legged on a concrete ground. The tinted glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows did not remove all outside light, and a shard of the fake moon's beam was reflected in the steel of her knife, silver, ethereal.

She had betrayed the Careers.

She had always intended to- it had always been what she had planned, from the start. She would direct the deaths in the bloodbath, drive a wedge of conflict between the Careers from which there could be no backing down. She did that. Theon, prompted by the blades she flung at his neck, did not even stop to consider before pushing his machete into Sheen Astara's brain, who had been fantastically easy to entice closer in the same way she had done Theon. She had directed chaos and created fear, and now the playing field was level enough that she stood a chance of survival.

And yet- and yet. Glace had felt something akin to remorse at watching Sheen's face included in the list of dead. She did not mourn him- she had not mourned since the darkest days of Rhy's death- but she felt she had dishonoured him in his death. She should have been the one to take his life, but instead she had manipulated one Career into another- and a Career that valued honour more than her had been forced into taking Sheen's life. She only held nominal views on the sanctity of an honourable death- it was messy, bloody, and she believed little of the honour of anything in life- but Theon Veux had a sense of honour that was almost regimented. She had directed a dishonour she felt Theon had not deserved. She only hoped she could give him a true execution when his own time came.

The concrete was hard, and she was aching from sitting so rigidly on the floor. She stood, stretched until her back clicked, then returned the slim blade in her hand to its place in her belt and walked through the apartment. She did not intend to settle down just yet tonight- not so close to the Cornucopia. She intended to know every inch of the place she had elected to inhabit for the night before she found a niche to hide herself in.

Mostly, she was too restless to sleep- she needed to find control, purpose.

Then again, she had been searching for purpose for three years, since Rhys died. The closest she had found was electing to go to the arena; and when chaos was all that she found even here, she wondered whether she'd ever find something to cling onto, something she could tie her searching soul to.

She tied it, for now, to the tallest building in the Capitol and arena. It was mostly the same as the real Training Center, albeit with no weaponry and very little food- the only real difference Glace saw was a long, thick concrete pole, several metres wide, stretching from the ground floor of the building to the top floor, wrapped around by the floor plan and lined up parallel to the elevator shaft. The Training Center was, perhaps, obvious, but its size made it the perfect place to hide, to observe; she could see the entire arena from the top floor.

Now, however, she wanted to see what she could observe from the roof.

She took the staircases rather than the elevator, not trusting the Capitol to have kept an enclosed metal box free of traps designed to kill her. Perhaps it was a paranoid notion, but her legs would recover from a trip up the stairs- her body wouldn't recover from a one-way trip down the elevator shaft.

The top floor arrived, and Glace was out of staircase. She walked out into the lobby of the Twelve penthouse, considering her options. There were no clear ways upwards; but she wanted that roof. She needed to see that roof. It could be a tactical advantage of astronomical proportions if she could drop things from the top of a skyscraper, if she could rig herself up to survive up there in solitude until everyone else was dead. She needed that roof.

She looked towards the elevator doors.

Immediately, she had a plan, and the doors were beneath her palms within seconds as she pushed and pulled them apart, opening onto a dark metal shaft. The elevator was far below her, and she was left with an empty run straight up to the top of the building.

Glace wedged the elevator doors with a chair and tentatively climbed on top of it, placing her hands onto the cool steel walls of the elevator shaft. If she could manage this, she could potentially hold the strongest position in the arena, permanently. She tested the metal cable in the center of the shaft, and it held steady. Glace was calm. This was just the Games; this was just an objective. No emotion and no conflict. This was what she loved, above all else. Her own control.

Stepping out into oblivion to hang from a metal cable was precarious control, but it was her own.

She climbed, using her feet to drive her upwards and her hands as grip. She regretted now not covering her hands with something, maybe some torn-up sheets- the cable was twisted steel, and tiny fibres of metal worked their way into her skin as she dragged them the wrong way. She regretted not taking the elevator now; she really was just being paranoid. What were the people outside the arena thinking of this small, determined, emotionless girl, climbing with shards of steel in her hands just to investigate a possible tactical advantage?

She didn't truly need the answer to that question- she was pretty sure she had known it for years.

She reached a set of elevator doors, brushed steel with a tiny lip that Glace balanced upon, one foot on the cable and one foot on the door. She reached forward, slid open the doors, then pitched inside, rolling as she hit the ground.

Which was unusually hard.

She sat up- but she was not on the roof of the building. At least, not technically. She was on a roof.

She realised, blankly, that the small expanse she found herself in, steel hatches and blinking red lights, seemed far too utilitarian to be Capitolian in origin. She looked up to the circular metal hatch above her, and to the concrete pole, several metres wide, that curved part of the wall to her right.

Then she understood.

An arena that, presumably, was the Capitol in a full scale replication, was large to an unprecedented scale. A dome that large needed support; and that's where the Training Center came in. It had been fitted with a column to support the arena's weight, and there was no roof because where she stood was the very top of the dome, where she shouldn't be. This was some sort of emergency entry system, with double-locked steel hatches and aged banks of red-lit computers humming ready for orders.

She saw no cameras here. She saw no sign of tribute-oriented design. This, this point at the top of the world Glace now lived in, was not a roof but an emergency entry to the arena, intended not for her but for someone who knew how to work those computers, who needed to get in somehow when other options were gone. Perhaps if someone downed a helicarrier- Glace wasn't sure. Contingencies were always the Capitol's interest.

Something within her, the same something that had screamed when the Capitol ordered the mutts that killed Rhys, the same something that had thrown her into Career training, the same something that had drawn her to follow Rhy's path to an arena, thrilled at where she stood.

Glace wondered if, finally, she had found a purpose.

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><p><em>As ever, thank you for reading this far.<em>


	37. Crown of Golden Thorns

_I'd like to add a quick warning here for going to the upper limits of the T rating._

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><p><strong>Y 184-08-31 T 23:42:56<strong>

**Day 1**

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><p>The screens were crackling in and out of focus, but the audio was staying clear, and Coriolanus could hear the desperation in Seneca Crane's voice.<p>

"Mr President, sir," Seneca said, his fast hand gestures making the image jam, "I can guarantee you that she had no suicidal notions whatsoever, none, the staffers vetted her file-"

"-And yet she stepped onto a landmine." Coriolanus intoned. As he had expected, Seneca's motions became more erratic, and the panic in his eyes, even from four hundred miles away, was tangible.

"Sir, she wasn't unbalanced, she wasn't-"

"-Then she was a _rebel_, Mr Crane? Do your staff check for that anymore?"

Crane began tapping his hand rapidly against the conference table. The motion blurred and juddered on the screen, but the _thud-thud-thud_ of flesh against wood was picked up perfectly by the microphone.

"Sir," said Josiah Lyman where he leant against the wall, just beside Crane in the camera's sights. "She held no visible interest in rebellion. She wasn't allied with any known revo groups. She's an outlier, a desperate aberration, and we need to stop focusing on her and start focusing on the real threats- Elizabeth Adews appears to have been a pivotal member of a revo group in Seven, as was Chal Detria, and we've found some footage of Quint Barkwater-"

"-I've seen the footage, Lyman, and some barman handing over money to a tribute is far beneath my pay grade. Elizabeth is a concern, but only if you can't take care of her in due course. _Subtly_. But you, Lyman, are the Hunger Games Head of Communications, and the question on the Capitol's lips tomorrow morning is going to be why that girl jumped off her plate, and _you_ will be the one answering."

Josiah blanched slightly. "Sir, with all due respect, isn't that Caesar's job?"

"Mr Flickerman is Master of Ceremonies, and he is commentating the Games. He does not have time to clean up your messes. You will address Capitol Beat tomorrow morning, at eight, and you will clear up the matter of the Nine girl. Permanently. Do I make myself clear, Lyman?"

Josiah dragged a hand backwards through his curled, messy hair. "Yes, sir. If I may?"

"You may."

"Files are easily edited, and an imbalanced temperament would be easier to sell to the public."

"Do it."

Josiah nodded. "Thank you, Mr President."

An aide came into the conference room silently, and murmured a few words in Coriolanus' ear in a manner so as to obscure his lips from the video link. Snow nodded curtly and waved the aide out of the room.

"I have other meetings to attend, and you have matters to clear up. See that I do not have to meet with you both again."

"Yes, Mr President." They chorused with the kind of mechanical precision that only a lifetime of conditioning could instill. Coriolanus stood, and the link cut out, the holograph shimmering into non-existence and the red light of the camera dying to black. Coriolanus stood, leaving the conference room; his silent shadows of security followed him, ever at the ready for threats. The night had drawn in, and the corridors of the Presidential Mansion were silent.

Mostly.

Coriolanus pushed open the double doors, walking with curt, sharp steps across the concrete floor.

"Have there been any advances on the last proposal?"

Anamaria Dimitri, Head of Security in Panem, stood from her half-crouched position to salute him. "No, sir, but I believe we are close to making a breakthrough."

"Excellent. Show me the work."

Anamaria stood back and let Snow inspect the concrete floors, the plywood table, and the man strapped to the iron chair. His face was obscured by the black bag that had been jammed over the top of it, but his hands were skin and bone, muscles and veins like ropes beneath his skin- he was old, certainly. Beyond that, the blood obscured most else, and the screams drowned out all sense.

"Remove the bag. And silence him." Anamaria was nothing if not efficient, and delivered both within seconds. An old man with a gag around his mouth moaned in his iron chair, and Coriolanus took the chintz-covered one opposite him, careful not to get blood on his crafted leather shoes.

"I dislike this form of information-gathering, Mr Warnke. I consider it to be distasteful. But you had every chance to be cooperative."

The man moaned limply through his gag. Coriolanus sighed slightly, tasting the ever-present blood in his mouth more than usual as he spoke his next words. "Anamaria, if you please."

The gag was removed, and Rufus Warnke looked up at Coriolanus as much as his bonds permitted him.

"She was a kid, she was a kid, Christ, _Christ_, she had a broken arm and she knew she was gonna die and she just _jumped_ and I didn't tell her, I didn't tell her to do it, I didn't-"

Coriolanus nodded at Anamaria. She picked up a steel hammer, twirled it to see the glint the overhead lamp cast on its surface, and then brought it down sharply on Rufus Warnke's wrist. Coriolanus waited impatiently for him to stop screaming.

"_I didn't tell her to do it!_" Rufus screamed, his voice frail, cracking and breaking under the pressure of stress and pain. "Please, _please_, I didn't-"

"-Then why did she do it?" Coriolanus cut in sharply. "Are you saying that children fearing for their life decide to end their life? That, Me Warnke, is a logical fallacy."

"You think kids weigh up the goddamn _logical fallacies_ of being stabbed to death versus being blown up?! They're kids! They're-" Rufus tried to flex his wrist and gasped, his words stolen from his throat.

"-Kids." Coriolanus finished for him. He observed Rufus as he might observe a report on his desk. He decided to do some editing.

"Mr Warnke," Coriolanus said, standing and pacing the room as he would before a speech, "You were told that I would not abide any treasonous activity. You were warned to keep your District in line."

"I'm a mentor, not a dictator! When they go in the aren-" Rufus broke off, gasping in pain. "-When they go in the arena, I can't do anything, I can't, I _can't_, I-"

He kept babbling, kept gasping and breaking for air, and Coriolanus found it distasteful. He nodded to Anamaria, and Anamaria made Rufus stop. He whimpered and ran out of air. Coriolanus had seen many videos of the old, proud Victor of District 9; he had inspected him as he did every Victor, every major player in the political game. But now, Rufus was diminished; age had broken his body, and now Anamaria was well on the way to breaking his spirit. Coriolanus stood victorious above. As he always would.

"Our medical teams can fix whatever Anamaria does. They can make the pain go away." Coriolanus disliked torture, but that did not mean he was not an expert in it. "Tell me what you did, and this stops, Rufus."

Coriolanus was not honestly certain Rufus would yield anything- that he had anything to yield. Warnke was proud, he was clever; he was a Victor.

Rufus shuddered and stayed silent. Coriolanus considered his options and took a different tack.

"We could always ask Holly. I'm certain she might be-"

"-_NO_!" Rufus was almost eighty, aged and injured, but he strained his restraints trying to sit up and defend his daughter's name, his breaking, frail voice turning to a savage, primal snarl. Coriolanus smiled at having elicited the response he wanted.

"There's the Victor I was looking for," he murmured.

"I didn't hear that. I don't care." Rufus managed. "Don't touch Holly, I can- I didn't think anything would happen, _anything_-"

"What did you do, Rufus?"

"I said to her-" Rufus gasped. "The girl. The tribute girl. I said to her- that she wasn't going to make it. That she wasn't going to make it."

"You told her she would die?" Coriolanus mused. "Not the words a mentor should instill, surely."

"I didn't know what to tell the kid! She had a broken arm, she was gonna die, I was drunk-"

"-You were drunk." Coriolanus said. Here was his entry point. Here was his spin. "You had a lapse of judgement. You told a girl with an- imbalanced temperament- that she was going to die, and she decided to hurry it along. Nothing of any revolutionary nature happened."

"No, no, god, no." Rufus gasped. Snow nodded, dusting off his jacket. Officially, that would be the truth. Now this exchange had happened, Rufus would likely believe it- it was as close as anyone would probably get to the truth, anyway. And Rufus would tell it to the Districts, and the circle would be complete.

Coriolanus tasted blood in his mouth.

"Anamaria, take Mr Warnke to East Bank hospital. It appears there was a horrible accident."

"Sir."

Coriolanus left the room, his security following carefully behind. He was starting to hate this Nine girl. Rufus had done little more than tell her the truth, his staff could find nothing to suggest her actions; she was truly just a desperate aberration, distracting from Elizabeth and her little one-man revo group. Snow had bigger problems to deal with than this.

His steps faltered just slightly as he walked to his quarters. His mouth tasted of blood.

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><p><em>As ever, thank you for reading.<em>


	38. Rectam

_With thanks to Glassgift, Katrace and akuhilangditelanbumi for your reviews of the last chapter._

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><p><strong>Y 184-09-01 T 04:23:40<strong>

**Day 2**

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><p>Sleep had come shockingly easily to her. She had thought, with the horrors she had witnessed and made over the course of the last day, she would never sleep; but when she had found a large, marble building with carved columns, the words 'Rectam Iustitiam' inscribed in letters larger than her own body above her, and found within its winding corridors a small room she barricaded with a flimsy chair. From here, when she had laid her spoils of the bloodbath beside her- the small carbon-fibre box, still clasped together, and the shining steel axe she had used to reduce a person to sponged, messy flesh- the adrenaline that had sustained her finally cleared her bloodstream, and she slept on the floor without even taking the time to strip from her bloodstained clothing.<p>

Elizabeth woke at dawn, the pale light of a fake sun mocking her awake. At first, only the groggy moments of half-clarity came to her- but slowly, small irritants told her something was wrong. Her back ached. Her left arm ached. Her scalp itched. Finally she stirred, and the events of a world so unlike her own at District 7 returned to her. She was a tribute. She had killed someone. Chal had tried to kill her and had died in return, and with his last words he had damned a revo group that had never existed, that she had apparently orchestrated.

And her scalp still itched. Sitting up, she instinctively pulled back her hand through her long, chestnut hair; but her fingers were caught and pulled short in the matted clumps of her hair, greasy and disgusting from the blood it had been washed in, from the Nine girl that had jumped and the Eleven boy she had slaughtered. She felt a small piece of gristly flesh in the nest of her hair, and she recoiled her hand away from the mess.

For years she had patiently taken care of her hair- her mother had always brushed it out, said how pretty it was long. But, Elizabeth mused darkly as she felt the bloodied mess her hair had become, her mother was likely turning in her shallow grave at the monstrous mess she herself had become. Elizabeth stood up in the small room. It was nondescript and tiny but nice enough- a crimson carpet that wasn't quite thick enough, a high slotted window, a mahogany desk. It seemed familiar- something she had seen, sometime that seemed so long ago. Where had she seen this building before? The question faded from her mind moments after it emerged, sinking beneath the malaise of sleep and drained irritability. Her back ached from a night's sleeping on the ground, despite the carpeted floor- her arm ached from using her axe, again and again, to-

Elizabeth cut herself off. Down that path lay a darker fate for herself, a depth of despair she could not afford to feel right now. She would not think of the Eleven boy- she would not think of Chal. It would be easier that way, easier to not feel anything rather than feel too much. She would internalise what she could until the release of either the Games' end or her death.

She focused instead on the small plastic box from the Cornucopia, her meagre spoils of war. She sat down and dragged the box to her, flicked open the clasps and released the contents of the head-sized box with rapid efficiency. Pouches of varying sizes spilled out, onto her lap.

She picked one up experimentally by its corner. It was metallic silver plastic, a slight perforation revealing how it could tear open at a corner; a stark label, marked with the seal of Panem and District 10 revealed it to be a 'RT Pk #18639'. With this obsfucating title, Elizabeth returned the pouches gingerly to their box and sealed them. A mystery to solve another time. For now, she was in an unknown area, perhaps too close to the Cornucopia, and she had lost the cover of darkness that a time prior to dawn could permit her. She wanted to move now, before the Career pack mobilised.

She reflexively dragged her hand through her hair again, and once more the blood and viscera matted into her chestnut hair caused her to rip some from her scalp. She winced, inhaling sharply- her hair was a mess of blood and the Nine girl's remains, and without water that she wanted herself for drinking, she had no chance of cleaning it.

One option remained to her. She crossed the room and picked up the shining, bloodied axe. Blood mingled with the crimson carpet as she wiped off the blade.

And then she raised it to the back of her head, bunched up a vast swathe of her bloody, matted hair, and swiped it back across the edge of the blade. Clumps of hair fell to the ground.

And so Elizabeth continued, because now she had started she could not stop. Thoughts of her fabricated revo group rushed through her head as she cut her head- the thought that her stunt with burning her dress, in messing up a Capitol tradition, would earn her recompense. She had little doubt her fate would come by the Gamemakers choosing it- her death would not come by anything but insitution.

She was left, eventually, with soft curling hairs at the base of her scalp, as far as she dared to go with the blade of even a small axe when it came to slicing her hair off. Clumps of bloodstained, flesh-matted hair lay around her in chestnut, crimson piles.

Elizabeth knew her little brother would recognise this for being against their mother. She hoped she was in this moment not seeming more a rebel than she was.

And yet- and yet. She was a rebel. She was almost certain that would be what it would read on her gravestone- if she had a gravestone.

Here lies Elizabeth Adews, a revo group member as her mother, except her mother was only harmless and Elizabeth was too. One executed by Peacekeepers, one by children- it seemed fitting in some way, their penance for the dead.

Elizabeth stood, axe in hand and box under her arm, and left the room. She wasn't sure where she was going, but her mind rebelled at the same factor- the revo groups. What had alerted her about those?

But, with slow burning realisation in her heart,she came to understand. It was not the fact that she had come to the Games in a made-up revo group- it was the fact that it had done nothing. Elizabeth stopped still, on the edge of realising her fate, her decision in the arena, in her remaining life.

But it was then, as she stopped still in the corridor, she heard the sound only metres behind her.

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><p><em>As ever, thank you for reading this far.<em>


	39. Iustitiam

_With thanks to Katrace and AbbyCoraby123 for your reviews of the last chapter._

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><p><strong>Y 184-09-01 T 04:32:17<strong>

**Day 2**

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><p>His outfit for the games had been a grey shirt, a grey jacket; mottled grey cloth, providing little else than meagre warmth and necessary clothing.<p>

Now, it was ripped, stuck stiff with blood's staining; a new dye to colour the bland canvas. He had removed his jacket, and with difficulty his shirt, but they were already irrevocably stained with the liquid, drying from deep black-crimson to a faded red, deepest in colour where a clean cut tore the shirt's fabric in two.

Theon sat bare-chested on the floor, using his fingers to rip more fabric from a plush chair- he discarded the old bloody rags he had torn from it, and began to fashion the new cloth into a neater bandage.

The incision Anna had given him with a single casual swipe of her sword was torn, his skin flapping away from the ragged edges- and there had been blood. So much blood. He had left, he was certain, a painful evidence of his run from the Cornucopia to- wherever this was. He wasn't sure. He had found a building in the Inner City, he had traversed deeper and deeper into its labryinthine corridors until he could go no further, and he had holed himself up, desperation fuelling his strength as he tried to stem the bleeding. But eventually, inbetween the panic of losing so much blood and his desperate attempts to stem the bloodflow, his adrenaline ebbed, and Theon had collapsed. He was sure that if he had not collapsed forward, his chest compressed against the floor and the cloth, he would have bled out and died. But by chance more than design, he had woken up this morning- in pain, and with a light head, and a laceration running from his breastbone deeper into his pectoral muscle on his left, but he was alive.

So this morning, with the ragged wound finally clotted to a point of stability, Theon could endeavour to fix it. The small room he was in was more an office than a home, with little more than a chair and a mahogany desk to provide him with tools- but it was enough. The chair he ripped apart with his bare hands, pulling rough black fabric from its structure in thin strips, laying them on the desk in preparation. He removed some of the stitching from the chair's fabric covering; he unwound thread, also black, also rough. It wasn't and couldn't be sterilised, but if he had any water he wouldn't be using it to clean anything.

A search of the desk uncovered little but blank papers, tied together with paperclips. Theon, upon this discovery of so little equipment, gasped and sat back in the dawn, trying to recover his strength and his breath. He had lost so much blood- it was on his hands, in his mouth, staining his ragged chest. Anna had injured him, and while it didn't seem infected from a few hours of being open he had no chance of survival if he tried to let the wound recover naturally, in the open, with every chance of infection and no food or water. He supposed the partially sterile nature of the arena was the only thing keeping him alive so far, but he didn't count on that to keep him alive for much longer. He needed to close the wound before he opened it up again, or worse.

He mused on how outraged his fake father would be to see his fake son win without the Careers to help him.

This mental image gave him the strength from spite. Head spinning, he hefted himself up with every piece of willpower he had, standing at the desk again, regarding the materials to hand. Bandages, thread, papers and paperclips. He had to think. He had to survive, without the Career pack. He fiddled with a large, thick paperclip under his weak fingertips, bending it out slightly. His skin caught on the edge of the metal clip and drew blood.

And Theon had his solution.

The paperclip was easy to pull, snap, to make straight, and to scrape against the wooden desk until sharp enough for use. Making a hole on the other end was harder, but Theon got hold of the other sharp edge of the snapped paperclip and bored it through the other metal with sheer determination, the rising sun pulling him on. He thread his makeshift needle- he sat in the golden rising sunlight let in by the small windows. Shaking minutely, he took a breath and held it.

And he pushed the needle through.

Sewing up flesh, he had been instructed at the Training Center, was not the same as sewing up fabric- although he had little experience of either. It was not a constant flow of thread- every tack had to be tied off separately, and making the knots again and again become harder and harder as the pain increased. Theon did not know if he was alone in the building, and he did not want to find out, but muting his own screams of pain was hard enough to be rendered impossible- eventually, he had grabbed a rubber stamp on the desk and bit down on it hard to mute his own pain. Sewing up his own chest was slow and agonising, and the partial muscle damage made lateral movement in his left arm nigh-impossible. He was in agony, but he had to sew up the wound- he had to be able to carry on. Eventually, enough of the wound was sewed up, and with shaking fingers Theon tied on the makeshift bandages, whimpering slightly as he pulled them tight against the sore, lightly bleeding skin. His wound was a litany of agony he could not put words to- he had never experienced anything like it, never.

But it was over, if not relinquished of pain, and Theon pulled on with difficulty his shirt and jacket again, trying to ignore the stiff feeling of dried blood in fabric. He had nothing to wash it with- for that matter, he had nothing to drink, or to eat. He stood up. He had to go out, find weapons, find food, find out where he was, at the very least. Reflexively, he stretched his arms upwards, as he always did.

Torn and resewn skin stretched and ripped slightly around the sewn edges and sent frayed nerve endings alight with pain. Theon screamed, loud and sudden. He bit down hard on his tongue to stop the cry, but it was too late- the city was silent, and anyone who was even vaguely in his vicinity would have heard that. He had no weapon, nothing- he was injured and alone.

And outside the unbarricaded door to his small office room, only a few metres away, Theon heard footsteps. He didn't even have time to defend himself before the doorway burst open and a figure whirled through with a blade pressed to his throat.

"Wait-wait-wait-" Theon gasped. He was not ready to die, not after what he just went through to live. The person with the blade was slim, feminine, with choppy short hair. _Anna_, he thought, and he was sent into a paroxysm of fear._ Not her. Please not her._

"Where's the rest?!" The girl growled, pressing the blade in harder. It was an axe, he realised blandly- Anna did not use axes. Anna would not ask where the rest of the Career group was.

He noticed the short hair was chestnut red, the colour of burnished flame. The rebel. He gasped again and tried to talk.

"There isn't- they aren't- there's no Careers, please, just listen-" He gasped. Elizabeth frowned. The blade loosened just slightly on his skin, and he leapt at the chance to survive. "She attacked me, Anna, the girl that stabbed your district partner. She disbanded the Careers, she's as much my enemy as yours, please-"

Elizabeth considered him for a second, eyes squinted, blade glinting in the golden sun.

Then she stepped back and released him, the blade still hovering dangerously close to his neck.

"The Careers are disbanded?" She asked suspiciously. Theon made to move away from the position Elizabeth had pushed him into against the desk, but she levelled the axe again. "Ah-ah-ah- talk, don't move."

"Okay, okay, fine." Theon said. "Look, Sheen Astara- the One guy- he's dead. Glace tried to kill me, or at least tried to lead Sheen and I into killing each other. I'm not sure where she is. Anna- I don't think she even wanted the Careers at all. The second Glace started attacking, she targeted me. Emma and Ronan- I have no idea. They were gone, I didn't see them. But they attacked me, and I don't- I want them dead as much as you."

Elizabeth tilted the axe slightly in her grip. "You're guessing I want them dead."

"Anna attacked your guy, didn't he? Where is he?"

Elizabeth faltered slightly. "He's dead," she said with well-hidden emotion.

"Well, I'm sorry," Theon said, a concept latching onto his mind- his moment of honour coming back for once in a good way. "I saved him once- sorry I couldn't do it again."

"He tried to kill me," Elizabeth said, as if the words had leapt from her tongue unbidden. She bit her lip slightly. "I'm not sorry he's dead."

"You are." Theon said, for once able to respond to someone with honesty, not in the way a Career and future Victor was expected to. "I am. I saved his life, and it is- wrong- to know that it was for nothing."

"He thought he was following me for a reason." Elizabeth said, her eyes flicking around as if searching for cameras. "He was wrong. He died for something that didn't exist."

Theon was surprised at this. It didn't take a lot of brainpower to suppose her meaning to be rebellion- but he had always taken her to be more committed to it than Chal, from her burning her dress, from him betraying her. She was understating her own beliefs.

"No, he didn't." Theon said, taking a stab in the dark as to what she wanted, what he could offer. "Because you believe it too. You're still around, right?"

Elizabeth squinted at him suspiciously. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that we don't have to do this." He took a chance and moved, gesturing lightly between her and him. "Fight, kill, all of that." She wanted rebellion? Theon was without the Careers already. He was an outcast already. He would give her what she wanted if it meant he could survive the next minute. "You and I- we believe in honour. You saw me save Chal. You know that's true. And what you want- you can't do that alone."

What he was suggesting, if anyone understood what he said but her, could be treason. He had to trust that he could kill her before she enacted any rebellion, before he was as much a rebel as her. He had to make sure this didn't make him a target of the Gamemakers. He took a deep breath and said the next words with as much meaning as he could, hoping only she picked it up.

"I want what you want, so let's do it together."

Elizabeth held her axe in the air a moment longer- the honed edge shone by his pulse as she deliberated.

And then it lowered, replaced by a hand, only flesh and blood.

"You are honourable." She admitted, suspicion still there but tempered with a reluctant respect.

Theon shook her hand. He hoped he would feel the same way about his honour when he recovered enough to kill her.

* * *

><p><em>A migraine today almost took this chapter out of commission. It's a miracle I finished this. In any case, as ever, thank you for reading this far.<em>


	40. Ante

_With thanks to Katrace, SeungriPanda98, and AbbyCoraby123 for your reviews of the last chapter._

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><p><strong>Y 184-09-01 T 05:31:44<strong>

**Day 2**

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><p>Seneca woke up in darkness; having lived in a glass skyscraper all his life, the dim light of a yellow bulb didn't come close to replicating the sunlight he knew. The morning had come, he knew, but he would not see it, and could not until the Games were done. Leaving the Arena Administration Unit, the labryinthine under-city of the huge dome holding the tributes, was punishable by death- death sentences were rarely threatened in the Capitol, but when you went four hundred miles away to a self-contained unit of weaponry, planes and explosives, Peacekeepers treated every movement with suspicion.<p>

In the fake sun the bulb supplied, Seneca dressed. After years of being the Technology Head of the Games, and years more as the Head Gamemaker, he had lost all interest in formal wear for directing the Games- he wore a simple black ensemble, a shirt on his torso without a jacket or cravat. Formality was not needed so far from the Capitol.

The corridors for the 76th Games Arena were just as dense and poorly signposted as any other arena he had been to over the years- eventually, however, he found the Main Administration Block. Banks of computers hummed as he brushed past them- workers greeted him automatically as they panned cameras, searched for tributes, operated the arena's movements. Many had been there since the opening of the Games the night before, and it was starting to show.

But his place was not with the workers busily doing the grunt work of the cameras and arena maintenance- his place was in the Gamemaker's Pit, the most senior workers and necessary staff together directing the Games. Seneca entered the glossy, clinically white room, and all inhabitants stood.

"Keep your seats," he yawned, taking the stairs to the bottom of the pit, walking straight through the holographic arena in its centre and walking up again to meet Lexus Valerian and Josiah Lyman. "How'd the Capitol Beat thing go, Lyman?"

"Embarassingly, as expected," Lyman said with a tired flick of his hand. "I'm not getting promoted anytime soon after taking responsibility for that mess."

"Someone had to, and it wasn't going to be someone important," Lexus quipped dryly. Josiah rolled his eyes, idly fiddling with a control panel.

"Getting antsy without your collection of eager-to-please fans, Valerian?" He shot back. Lexus smirked.

"Why, you getting lonely without your Avox girlfriend, Lyman?"

Josiah's head shot up, but Seneca cut him off before anything could escalate.

"Guys, I could really care less about your dual lack of a love life." He turned towards the Gamemakers at their positions by the control panels. "Someone want to give me a report of the night?"

One spoke up, flicking a few videos to the front screens.

"It's been mostly quiet- no kills, although Anna Corinna was definitely prowling around for some action. Ronan and Emma are at City Studios with a weapons cache, The Twelve male and the Eight male are in Valerian Tower. Quint Barkwater- Josiah has some files to show you on that-"

Seneca groaned slightly. "Lyman, I've seen the footage of the bribery, and nothing needs to be done."

Josiah shrugged. "I'll discuss it with you later, but I disagree. Can't have anyone fraternising visibly, Capitol or not. If this gets out and they find out we had this info, we're in the drink. Probably literally."

Seneca decided to ignore that veiled comment on the Capitol's practices for his own safety. "Later on, Lyman. What's the Two boy doing?"

"He sewed up his injuries, and he and the Seven girl stumbled onto each other in the Justice Building." She opened footage on the screen- a door bursting open, a girl with short red-brown hair holding an axe to Theon's throat.

Josiah frowned. "What's with that? He's a Career. How'd he let himself get overpowered by a girl with a tiny axe?"

"He just sewed up his own chest, you want him doing the hula?" Lexus said, his tone dry. Josiah didn't rise to it, but he did 'accidentally' stamp down hard on Lexus' foot. Valerian whimpered slightly.

"And they allied?" Seneca said, suspicion marking his tone. "The revo girl and the Career?"

"It appears so. They brought up the Chal incident at the Training Center- we had to mute the majority of their allying exchange."

"Of course they did." Seneca sighed, dragging his hand across his chin. "Okay, so they're together. Anything else I should know?"

"The One girl."

"What about her?"

Lexus and Josiah shifted uncomfortably. A pained silence blanketed the Gamemakers' Pit. With finality, the woman at the control panel brought up the final video.

Glace Gratton, at the Training Center, in the penthouse if the location stamp was to be believed. She looked around carefully, then made for the elevator doors, prising them open. She carefully leant into the elevator shaft, a small sliver of her body still visible where it hung from the cable- and then she moved upwards, and was gone.

Seneca frowned. "I don't understand."

Lexus sat down heavily. He sighed, loosening his sky-blue tie. "That happened late last night," he admitted weakly. "We think she was looking for a roof."

"-And?" Seneca questioned.

"And, there is no roof," Lexus sighed. "As I've mentioned in meetings before, the arena's too large to stand unsupported- I put in a supporting column, disguised as the highest building in the Capitol. It was an easy enough thing to do."

"I think I remember that," Josiah said. "But I'm not really getting your point."

Lexus dragged a hand back through his hair. "There were-concerns- raised about the security of having a building going to the top of the arena, and frankly I agreed. So I built in a- failsafe, of sorts."

Seneca could sense a tension headache coming on. "Lexus, what are you saying?"

"I didn't think she'd get up there, I didn't think anyone-" Lexus groaned. "Okay, there's no cameras there to prove she did or didn't find anything, but I built in a helipad-accessible hatch at the top of the dome. From there, there are explosive bolts built into the top of the Training Center." Lexus stood, moving down to a control panel- he brought up a holographic mockup of the Training Center, and uncovered the floor pattern beneath. "If anyone tries to storm the top of the building, or use the structural integrity of the arena as a weapon or escape route- we have a bank of computers up there, remotely accessed, that can blow those bolts."

"And then-" Josiah murmured.

"-And then the supporting column is gone, and anyone who tried to use it." Lexus said. "It's not something you want going off at the beginning of the Games, and it's especially not what you want in the too-curious hands of some goddamn tribute."

Seneca closed his eyes. He inhaled slowly.

"Did anyone get broadcast any footage of her going up?" He finally managed.

"-No, no sir," Josiah said, recognising the dangerous note in Seneca's voice.

"And has she got the ability to get that hatch open? Use any of the computers?" He pressed.

"I designed that programming for Capitol engineers, and without an oxyacetylene torch she'd struggle to even try that hatch," Lexus said. "She's harmless up there."

"See that she is," Seneca announced sharply. He pulled at his shirtcuffs furiously. "And I don't know what else you've set up in that building, but encourage her to leave it before she finds anything else."

"Yes, sir."

Seneca sighed. Everything was so much easier when he had been the Technology Head. Problems and solutions, engineering and mathematics; not messy politics and unpredictable tributes. He was surrounded by chaos, and the increasingly incensed eyes of the President weren't helping matters. He let silence blanket him for a moment.

Then he threw the blanket off, stalking to the bottom of the pit, observing the holographic arena flickering by his waist.

"Okay, so it's, what, six?"

"Five to, sir."

"Close enough. Lex, can you ring through to Caesar and make sure he's in a recording booth?"

The call only took a few seconds, and from the muffled swearwords Seneca could make out on the other end of the line, Caesar wasn't happy at being up this early to record. Seneca couldn't care less about the Master of Ceremonies' petty problems back in the Capitol.

"Okay, get ready to hit the anthem and bring up the sun to an- eleven o' clock position. If the tributes aren't awake, we want them awake. Blare that anthem loud. Got it? And- _go._"

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><p><em>This chapter is a new addition from my initial plan, but I wanted to consolidate the action so far before introducing more, and I needed to add in a few pieces that weren't covered otherwise. <em>

_And another reason. You guys are all making an excellent point- which is while my grasp of events in the Games is perfectly clear to me, I'm the one who is a) writing it, and b) has a six-page breakdown of the events in current and upcoming chapters. So yeah, I'm not being clear enough about timings and such. So, I've put in this chapter to show what I thought was obvious and naturally wasn't- that this is actually the first morning. Everything so far has been one afternoon and night, but every character started off at the same point in the bloodbath before I progressed, which is probably where the confusion started._

_In any case, I've retrospectively gone back and added timestamping to every chapter since the start of the Games, and will continue this for all chapters afterwards. Hopefully this will make everything a bit clearer. Thanks for bringing this up._

_(And as an aside to AbbyCoraby123, as I'm unlikely to cover this in the content of the chapters itself- Elizabeth's new hairstyle is loosely based on my own, albeit slightly choppier as she cut it herself with an axe. Imagine short at the back, around an inch, developing to around four inches of hair at the front. While mine flicks uncontrollably upwards, however, Elizabeth's flicks down in a choppy fringe. Closer to Anne Hathaway than Shailene Woodley. Hopefully this is clear enough to give you a picture.)_

_This is a very long author's note- sorry. I wanted to cover a few bases to explain the retconning of previous chapters._

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	41. The Maslow Effect

_With thanks to Katrace and Glassgift for your reviews of the last chapters._

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><p><strong>Y 184-09-01 T 05:57:44<strong>

**Day 2**

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><p>Quint lived with his muscles tensed, his body in a state of readiness for anything, any scenario. Peacekeepers were trained to hold this readiness at their fingertips, but a District boy with no parents, living in a District ruled by corrupt governance and drug barons- he existed in a state of readiness, trained from birth into instinctual response. Sleep was his only escape, and only vulnerability. In unconsciousness, his muscles could relax, his mind put at rest from constant readiness. And this morning, sleeping in a bed almost softer than anything he had experienced in his lifetime, Quint was at rest.<p>

Until, naturally, the entire world shook at a blaring trumpet call, and Quint promptly fell out of bed.

He sat up sharply, feeling twinges of pain in his back.

"Where's the fire?" He mumbled irritably, clamping one hand over his head in a half-hearted attempt to block out the sound. After a long moment of both listening to and despising listening to the sound, he discerned a familiar pattern to the tones- the 'Horn of Plenty'. A song he had heard far too many times in the past few days, and never with good connotations.

It faded, eventually, and Quint sighed and let his hand drop from over his ear. He stood, reflexively checked that the chest-of-drawers was blocking the bedroom door, then went to the window, inspecting the dawning sunlight. It was still fairly dark- he would place the time at around five or six in the morning, if he had to guess. He looked up at the skies.

And then a midday sun was burning into his retinas, and a few cursewords escaped his tongue as he screwed his eyes shut against the unnatural blaring sunlight. It had gone from dawn to midday almost immediately, and it was categorically disconcerting.

Also painful. Quint winced, spinning around and collapsing back against his bed again.

Having not seen where he was going, Quint then slammed the back of his head against the wall the bed was leaned against.

"_Son of a_-" he rolled on the bed, clutching his head forcibly. He despised mornings at the best of times, but today was becoming insufferable. If he didn't know the Gamemakers were grown adults, he would have been certain they were mocking him today.

After a long time, Quint decided he was going to risk standing up- unless the building was demolished, he wasn't sure what the Gamemakers could do to thwart that particular action.

He stood, feeling slightly woozy from having hit his head. The ground remained beneath his feet, although the world was spinning slightly from a combination of staring into faux sunlight and slamming his head into a wall. Quint took a deep breath-then another. And then he prepared for his first morning in a Capitol-mandated death trap.

He slid a chest of drawers from the bedroom door, moving out into the spacious living room with its glass spiral staircase running through the center. Floor-to-ceiling windows were letting in streams of light this morning- more than should be for a morning, but then again the Capitol appeared to have made the morning into the early afternoon in a matter of seconds, so little could be done about that. Quint laid out his belongings on a table and sat on the minimalist pastel couch adjacent to it. The spear fired at him, a water canteen and his precious cargo of unlabelled medicines; it was not much, but it provided most of the essential equipment he needed. There were, naturally, drawbacks. Quint had no idea how to use a spear, and his medicines were not only unlabelled but fragile and encased in a crate of unwieldy size. And, most importantly- his water canteen was empty, and he had no food.

Quint was starting to sense that in this fake city, there would be no food or water to find anywhere. There were no signs of plumbing in the buildings, and the refridgerators were plentiful but their insides were bare; he was beginning to wonder if this was a ploy to ensure that in a large arena there would be a lot of conflict. The only sources of food, he theorised, would be in the Cornucopia or with other tributes.

_And within other tributes_, he mused darkly. He still remembered the year tributes had resorted to cannibalism. He didn't put himself above the possibility of doing so himself, but he knew that it would, as it had in that year, bring him to the Gamemaker's attentions and make him the target of assassination. But the point remained that he was hungry, and his options would be to either target a Cornucopia that would be bristling with Careers, or hunt down individual tributes in the hopes that they would have food instead. Quint despised the Capitol's practices, but he had to respect the Machiavellian strategising that such a lack of food instilled in their tributes. The Games were for entertainment, after all- without bloodshed, there would be nothing for the insatiable Capitolians to drink.

So Quint was hungry. And thirsty. And he needed to rectify both before either severely impeded his health. Thankfully, he had a solution, one that appealed to his sense of formulaic strategy.

The arena was, by nature, finite- and for it to be finite, it had to have an end. He had travelled into the Capitol with its cargo trains enough to know the outside of the place- and therein lay his solution. On one side of the Capitol laid a mountain range, which was perfectly replicated here on the horizon (although he was willing to bet the majority of it wasn't real). On the other- while the buildings between him and it prevented him from seeing if it was replicated in the arena- lay the Capitol Waterfront, the great reservoir that provided the Capitol with both defence and water.

It stood to reason that in an arena with a finite end, the Waterfront would be its edge. It stood to reason that in a fake city with no food or water, the Cornucopia would hold the food and the Waterfront would hold its water- fostering both a reliance on the center of the arena and an incentive to explore the rest. Quint wasn't an entertainer, but he could understand logistics, and if he could do that he could, potentially, survive.

Picking up his spear, he twirled it experimentally in his fingers. Perhaps he stood a chance after all.

Then he fumbled the twirling spear, dropping it with a clatter to the ground.

_Water first_, he decided, _weapons-training second._

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><p>The midday sun had ruined his intention of starting out before light had truly hit the sky, and as such Quint was even more paranoid than before as he adjusted his spear in his hand and his makeshift backpack over his shoulder. The canteen had been small enough to pocket in his jacket, but the fragile vials needed padding, and that forced him to take the entire crate- he had sliced open a bedsheet and threaded it through the clasps, but it was hardly a real backpack, and the crate thumped irritatingly against his back.<p>

As he walked through the arena, marble buildings hid in shadow gave way to monoliths of shining, iridescent glass. The buildings were impressive in the glittering night, but at day they were alive in pearlescent sheens- he walked in a hallway of sun-soaked glass, his face lit from every angle.

And every building, it seemed, had dual purpose as a storefront. Quint had inspected each for purpose, but much like the Capitol almost none had any purpose- most were either concerned with beauty, entertainment, or gambling. Quint supposed that did make sense- they were the non-essentials of life, the things that without the strife of survival made life have purpose for the empty Capitolians in their empty city.

Beauty sold status, and established a complex social order- the Districts held only authority figures and subordinates, but the Capitol had time, and when time was found focus would inevitably fall upon who fell where in the world, how they were percieved by others. Beauty- or voluntary disfigurement, as Quint would describe many procedures done by the Capitol- gave a talking point, a calling card of someone's personality, status, worth.

Entertainment was the warmth that reassured Capitolians when preening did not. Comforting figures, like Caesar Flickerman, soothed their troubles- violent bloodlust, like the Games Quint found himself in, gave the Capitolians their outlet for the darker, repressed recesses of their souls. In the heart of the government, emotions were repressed for the same reason they repressed the Districts' power, and television was to the Capitol as the mayor was to the Districts- a taste of freedom, emotional or democratic.

And gambling- Quint knew it held the same significance to both District citizens and Capitolians, no matter how attractively dressed up the storefronts were. Gambling sold hope. The hope for money, for betterment; for a life that excels your own. Gambling was the mirage in the desert, and like that mirage it was real in veneer only.

Quint looked away from the storefronts. He had gambled, once. He had tried to better himself. He had lost what little he had scraped up to put forward, and he had never done it again. Hope, as it turned out, had a price, and it was one he couldn't afford.

He pressed on to the edge of the arena through the halls of mirrored light.

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><p><em>This is entirely unrelated to this chapter or story, but you should go google the Pacu fish. They have teeth like people. Fish with people teeth, tell me that isn't trippy.<em>

_I don't have anything of note to add tonight. I'm going on a trip across the country tomorrow, and if I have wifi during the trip I'll upload chapters. Until then, Google the Pacu fish._

_Thank you, as ever, for reading this far._


	42. The Herodotus Effect

_With thanks to AbbyCoraby123, Glassgift, and Regster for your reviews of the last chapter._

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><p><strong>Y 184-09-01 T 06:23:05<strong>

**Day 2**

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><p>"Hey, kid. Wake up. Wake up."<p>

Emil was surrounded by dark warmth, and the voice was far above him, far away from him. He moaned and shifted away from the voice.

"You're kidding." The voice groaned. "Emil. Wake up."

Emil wasn't so easily swayed. He was the son of a merchant family, but he was also a child of District 12, and he had spent his life on hard-mattressed beds that were never quite free of fleas. He had never experienced in his lifetime an overwhelming sense of comfort, of security. He hummed out an incomprehensible response and buried his head further into the pillow under his head.

"That's it. I was done being civil half an hour ago."

And then Emil's world flipped and suddenly the ground had come to meet him. He yelped, flailing out of the duvet he was tangled in and getting to his knees. When he had regained enough of his mind from the fog of sleep, he found himself on the carpeted floor, facing a tipped-up bed. _An odd coincidence that a bed with a sturdy wooden base would tip up, _he thought, _especially when Cesal's standing right there._

"Morning, kid," Cesal deadpanned, letting go of the wooden bed and allowing it to flip back down to the floor. "Looking for something down there?"

"Yeah," Emil managed after a moment. "I used to have a bed, and I'm wondering where it went."

"That's funny," Cesal said with a tone that blatantly said it was not, "Because I was looking for an ally who actually woke up in the mornings."

"It's- what-" Emil glanced at the drawn curtains, squinting at the sunlight filtering through. "-Early, I guess? You don't need to get violent, it's not like there's any wake up call."

"Okay, newsflash, kid? There was a wake up call. It was to the tune of 'Horn of Plenty', it was five minutes ago, and it gave a heart attack to any sane person in the arena. You seriously telling me you didn't hear that?"

Emil knew he was a heavy sleeper, but he had seen no reason to share this with an ally who was tentatively connected at best. He shrugged non-commitally, disentangling himself from the duvet and standing up to face Cesal head-on. "Okay, so there was a wake-up call. Why are you so desperate to get me up?"

"Because our advantage was with moving before anyone was up, even the sun. And now everyone's awake and the Gamemakers have-" Cesal threw open the curtains to the bedroom, letting in a burst of sunlight- "-Messed up the sun. So now we've lost both advantages. So get up and move."

"Won't everyone be having the same idea?" Emil called over as Cesal hurried into the living room.

"Shut up and pack things!"

Emil, feeling he was pushing his luck, threw on his jacket and sneakers and got to work packing everything else. There wasn't much to pack- he bundled the spools of wire from the Cornucopia into his backpack, where they took up less than a quarter of the space and almost none of the weight. Emil had spotted a few things of interest, and had set them out before going to sleep last night- a sheet that could be used for bandages or tourniquets was stuffed in the pack, along with a silk sheet he had found that could prove useful if they found water. Emil hadn't purified water with the seven-fold fabric method for years, but there was little to the concept, and while it wasn't as effective as silver filters it would probably protect him from most major pathogens. He had discovered a small bathroom, too, and while it held almost nothing beyond fake or unplumbed amenities, it had still proved useful.

As quietly as he could, he had loosened and removed the heavy metal showerhead and placed it in his backpack. While it was unwieldy, at short notice it could serve as a club. Emil stuffed it to the bottom of the bag, out of sight if Cesal decided to pry into the pack's contents.

He didn't trust Cesal. The deal had been made in the Training Center (he had memorised and filed the exchange exactly) that between them, they covered a lot of potential arenas- Emil for the rural, Cesal for the urban. But Emil had been in little doubt that Cesal would turn on him if the arena was in his favour instead of Emil's. The fact that Cesal hadn't killed him at the bloodbath, or even last night, was exceptional. Emil had pretended to sleep for hours before exhaustion had finally overtaken his will, and not once had Cesal so much as entered his room. For some reason, Emil was alive.

But now came the question why Emil was still alive, and it wasn't a question he had an answer to. He intended to find out, and he wasn't going to be unarmed around Cesal until he did.

Emil walked out into the large, luxuriant living area, decorated in red and black. Cesal was reclined on the red couch, busy throwing a glass paperweight up into the air and down again, up and down, catching it one-handed and rolling his wrist to send it aloft again. Finally, he fumbled the catch, and the heavy glass ball dropped onto the couch- Emil noticed for the first time that Cesal was using the hand with a missing finger. Cesal looked over and stood up, flexing the fingers of his hand.

"We ready to move out?"

"Yea- hang on." Emil's eyes alighted upon the stylised, pointless mantlepiece, with the small picture frame on top. He grabbed it up and stuffed it into the backpack.

"That's dumb," Cesal said, flopping back onto the couch as Emil sat back on the other. "What do we need the Snow picture for? Dead weight?"

"A morale booster? I don't know, it was at the Cornucopia for a reason-" Emil, in stuffing the picture into the backpack, lost his grip on it, and the pack slammed with a metallic _crack_ onto the floor. Emil caught his breath. Cesal was suddenly sitting alert on the couch.

"What was that in there?" Cesal said, his generally relaxed tone snapping to a rough bark.

Emil stood up sharply, pulling up the backpack desperately after him. "I packed the wire as well," he said smoothly. He had hoped his ability to lie would have worked on Cesal, but to no avail; the Eight tribute was already on his feet, hand reaching for his jacket pocket. Emil backed up half a step, then hit the edge of the couch and fell backwards, scrambling for purchase on the plush lining. Cesal, hand still in his pocket, pulled the backpack from Emil's hands and tipped it, dumping the contents on the floor. The picture of President Snow cracked on the ground, the coils of wire tumbling on top- the sheets fell silently to cover them, and then, with finality, the heavy showerhead dropped on top of the pile with a damning heavy thud. Cesal looked at Emil heavily, before picking up the showerhead and hefting it in his hand.

"I was a Black Band back in Eight, and a senior one, so don't try to con me, kid." His tone was dangerous, and now his hand emerged from his jacket pocket, palm wrapped around the hilt of a blade.

"I don't know- I don't know what that means," Emil muttered, trying to scoot to the side on the couch, away from Cesal directly looming over him. Cesal matched the slide with a single sideways step, cadence untroubled by Emil's attempts to escape.

"It's-" Cesal's eyes flicked around, as if looking around for people for the first time. Emil realised, then, that his admittance to being a 'Black Band' was likely far more dangerous here than Cesal had realised- _gang_, Emil decided a second later. Cesal tried a different tack.

"-Don't play games with me," Cesal said, following this up by holding the showerhead a little higher. "I'm not your mom, and I'm not going to buy your dumb excuses on why you packed this. What, you trying to kill me? You think I'm a pushover, kid?"

"_No_, I just-"

"Then what? What? Come on!"

"I didn't want you to kill me," Emil said with a gasp, springing up and behind the couch. Cesal moved like a whip, but now Emil had a couch between them, and he matched every sidestep Cesal made around the couch. His only chance now was honesty, much as he despised the concept. "We're in a city, you brought us together on the basis of how useful we were to one another, but how useful am I to you here? Huh?" The outpouring of his worries became a flood, and Emil shook as Cesal's eyes darkened. "I've not got the advantage, I've not got the weaponry, I mean, come on, you thought I'd just lie down and take it as you slit my throat?"

Cesal looked, all of a sudden, painfully awkward. "It would've made my life easier," he tried vaguely. Emil sidestepped as Cesal did, and now his months of lying to his parents gave him a sudden taste for the truth.

"Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm not going to take it just because I'm 'the Twelve kid'. I'm not useless, not even now." Emil's mind was alight with possible ways to continue this conversation, to continue his life, and now an avenue presented itself to him. "You don't sleep."

And now Cesal's knife twirled in his hand and they were almost constantly moving around the couch, a quick circle of movement, chasing one another in short steps just below a run. "What the hell is that to you?!"

"Back in Twelve, I-" And while it seemed petty, now, it had been a lie he had proliferated at home for so long, and it was painful to say when he knew there were cameras everywhere. "-I made drugs."

"Yeah, you're the apothecary guy, you mentioned in training."

"Not- I- not just that." Emil's hand clenched into a fist, unclenched and clenched, over and over. "I met people. People I shouldn't have talked to, but they knew me and- things I didn't want them to know about me." He couldn't say he had gone outside the District, not here with so many cameras on and his parents still at home. "They knew my mother's experience with medicine, and they-"

"-Blackmailed you?" Cesal said. "Sure, I've seen it done plenty, though I imagine in Twelve it's not exactly a big operation so much as a few kids that want to get high. Your sob story's not convincing me of anything, kid."

"You're not understanding me." Emil turned and turned as Cesal matched his every movement, only a couch between them both. He had to make his case. He had to survive. "I made alcohol for them, mostly, but I know how to make other things. Things that could help you with your insomnia. They're not Capitol-grade, but if I can get hold of just a few ingredients-"

"-You'll kill me with some poison shit." Cesal finished, holding his knife up dangerously. "I'm not dumb, and I know you know that shit better than I do."

Damn. Emil could do that, and probably would if he had the opportunity to do so. He needed another tack. He raced from memorised information to memorised information in a desperate bid to find something that would save his life from the knife in Cesal's hand.

And then he noticed the tremor.

They were moving quickly, but Cesal's hand was shaking. He'd put it down to muscle damage, but it wasn't the hand with the missing and reattached fingers- and it was shaking. He had seen that tremor only a few times before, and it was in the hands of Haymitch Abernathy, when he was semi-sober and paying for grain alcohol from his mother's apothecary, lost in the memories of killing, of trauma.

And like that, Cesal's life seemed all too easy to piece together. Emil stopped moving.

"You won't kill me," he said, and he knew it was true. Cesal shuddered to a halt opposite him on the couch.

"Wanna bet, kid? Because I'm the one with the knife and the showerhead, not you." But he had stopped moving, and the knife was trembling in his hands.

"You're shaking." Emil said, his mother's medical advice coming back to him, years of experience at her side coming to his aid. "It's not physiological, because that's your good hand and you don't shake all the time, so that leaves psychological. You don't sleep, and I thought you were just over-dependent on sleeping pills, but that's a symptom, not the reason. Something happened, something traumatic, something that makes you almost unable to hold that knife, something- that's the reason you volunteered for Cutch Hassan. You won't kill me because you can't."

Cesal's face twitched slightly, fury behind his eyes. But slowly, he lowered the knife to his side.

"Doesn't mean I won't beat the shit out of you, kid." He murmured, but it was grating and the knife was juddering in his shaking hands.

"You're not going to kill me." Emil said, because that was all that ultimately mattered. And, because he wanted to try and salvage his hopes at not being beaten up either- "-And I've got at least a foot of height on you, so I'll take my chances."

Cesal chuckled humourlessly, returning his knife to his pocket with a shaking hand. "Four inches, max. Don't get cocky, kid."

Emil smiled weakly, shaking his head. Something in this revelation, in Cesal's vulnerability, made him like the Eight tribute, just slightly. "Yeah, yeah. I'm pretty sure you've put lifts in those sneakers."

Cesal snorted, but his eyes were marked with hurt. He flicked his eyes up to Emil's face, his hand still in his jacket pocket. "You diagnosed me in less than a day?"

"I diagnosed you in less than a minute." Emil said. "When you volunteered for Cutch Hassan, and when you said you weren't related to him. People don't volunteer for friends. Not unless they owe them something big."

Cesal removed his hand from his jacket pocket, this time empty of a knife. He flipped the showerhead in his other hand, sighing. "Ah, Christ, are you looking for some big sob story now? I only just decided not to kill you, and I'm not all that sure where you stand either."

"You can't kill me, and I'm in it for your city knowledge." Emil said. Really, he was still unsure whether or not he'd ditch or even kill Cesal the first time he dropped his guard, but for now he just wanted to keep Cesal from killing him first. Cesal nodded, just slightly.

"Pick up that damn backpack. We're losing time here."

With that, the allies were clearly reconciled, if only for now. Emil didn't take his eyes off of Cesal, but he picked up the backpack and moved towards the door. Cesal approached him, tentatively, before holding out the showerhead.

"It's not a bad weapon, if you hold it correctly. Slam it into their solar plexus if you get the chance- or just slam them round the head if that doesn't work out."

Emil, surprised, took the showerhead with a nod. This was, even if it was tentative, a form of trust. Cesal and he had shared parts of their history with one another, moments that grated on their soul, and now they stood together again, even if with more tacit understanding of the lack of trust between them.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. And don't ask about the goddamn volunteering thing again."

"Sure." Emil was certain he'd get it out of Cesal one way or another, but for now he wouldn't pry. He might have the height advantage, but he was still fairly certain Cesal could beat him up without trying. "So where are we headed?"

"Search that spirit guide mind of yours and think what we need."

"Food, for one."

"And?"

Emil figured it out then, but he wanted to test the waters with Cesal. He smiled slightly. "-Girls?"

Cesal laughed- lightly, and only temporarily, but he still laughed. It seemed, then, that the truce had been agreed. "Close, but no cigar. Maybe if we meet that Two girl on the way."

"Water, then."

"And your spirit guide mind tells you-"

"We passed a reservoir when the trains came into the Capitol."

"Bingo. So, kid, you ready?"

Emil hefted his repacked backpack on his shoulder, felt the cool metal in his hands and the eyes of his temporary ally. "Ready."

"Let's head out while the sun's hot, then."

The two of them left the apartment. All they left behind was the smashed image of President Snow on the floor.

* * *

><p><em>I really hate travel. No wifi, no chapter, unfortunately. Thankfully, during my stay here I should have wifi, so I'll be keeping up with chapters until my journey back around Friday. <em>

_As ever, thank you for reading this far. _


	43. The Cleckley Effect

_With thanks to Glassgift for your review of the last chapter._

_I took creative inspiration from an 'Hannibal' episode for the imagery in this chapter, so be warned that this chapter gets a little gory._

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><p><strong>Y 184-09-01 T 09:41:52<strong>

**Day 2**

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><p>It was now that Emma missed the sea.<p>

She had grown up in a house by the coast, before her mother died- it was small and crowded, but it had smelt of the sea, and of the unending cooking that wafted through the house. Her mother, Ana, had loved cooking, and Emma's older brother Andreas had inherited that love. While Emma took after her father, strong and powerful and raring to fight, her brother and mother would spend days together in the kitchen, laughing and joking, warm smiles on their faces.

When their mother was lost to a heart attack, it was Andreas who had suffered most, visibly. Emma and her father had shut down, retreated into themselves, and the downsized family had moved into a downsized house in Fishery Zone 7. It was still by the sea, but there the smell of salt was overpowered by the acrid stench of the oil the dredging rafts used to power their tiny engines. Here her father had met the owner of the restaurant next door, and his son; Emma had retreated into herself, to the sea, swimming in its depths to hide from the world above.

It was now that Emma missed the sea, when the morning had come but it was too bright, preternaturally bright, and she only wanted to let the sun pass her by beneath the waves.

But the arena was a city, the Capitol, a valley of buildings with a wedge of sunlight above them, and there was no water to be found. Thankfully, she had a water bottle to hand, and she cracked it open as she walked along the road with Ronan.

"Gotta say," she hummed in low tones, trying to prevent her voice echoing against the glassy walls of buildings, "I really hope they don't wake us up like that every day."

Ronan snorted around a mouthful of a ration pack. Neither of them flinched as a cannon fired above them; it had been happening for the last hour, and after the first few cannons they had stopped standing in place with their weapons drawn. "I'm just hoping you don't spend two hours getting ready next time."

"Yeah, well, I'm just trying to ration us out so we're good for a few days, instead of eating them all _in the morning_, dumbass." Emma smacked Ronan on the back of the head roughly.

"I need energy in the morning, don't question my ways."

"Bull. Shit. You're just hogging the food, and I'm not going to stand for it." Emma whipped out her hand to grab the ration pack from Ronan's. But fast, faster than Emma could reach out, Ronan pulled back his hand. He was a large-built tribute, and it was easy to forget how lithe he was underneath his bulky pack of muscle- he was faster than she was despite her light-built figure, and it was disconcerting. Ronan, still casual despite his burst of speed, jammed the rest of the ration bar into his face, grinning around his mouthful of food.

"Godda try har'er tha' that, E'a," he garbled. Emma rolled her eyes and returned her hand to the sword tucked in her belt.

"You're an absolute pig, Rona-"

Her breath hitched and died in her throat as they rounded the corner to a wide road, bathed in sunlight reflected down from the glass buildings around them. It was light, bright, warmly lit.

And bathed in blood.

Small bodies, diminished by being dismembered and strewn across the tarmac ground. A couple were seated against shopfronts, their throats slit, staining the glass fronts of the gambling emporiums- one such body was lacking any arms and legs, the limbs roughly hacked from its torso. Still, Emma was fairly certain it had been the small District Six girl, from the hair; she certainly couldn't guess from the face, as it had been cut up so bloodily it had ceased to be a face.

"Holy shit." Ronan murmured. "Did the rest of the Careers do this?"

Emma did not answer. This level of bloodshed was unprecedented. It was unthinkable. No Career would do this. This was not killing- this was revelling in torture. The sheer amount of blood suggested that the former tributes had been alive when they were dismembered; that their hearts had still been pumping as someone hacked their arms and legs from their body. She had trained as much as any Career, but this was unthinkable. There was little honour in killing, but what little a Career had was entirely lost in this glorification of destruction.

"Emma?" She looked up sharply, hand on her sword, to Ronan's face. "Do you think the Careers did this?"

She stared down at the trails of blood and viscera on the ground. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her sword.

"Keep moving. Through it. Keep moving through it." She walked on, carefully treading around the bodies and through the blood. Ronan stared after her doubtfully, before following behind, deftly weaving through the remains of people.

"You sure we should do this?" Ronan said. A faint hum started up in the background, and he looked back at it. "The hovercraft's coming, and I don't want to be in the way of it when it retrieves these."

"Hang on." Emma said, her grey sneakers turning black-red under the viscera at her feet. One of the gambling emporiums seemed to be the focal point for the bodies- the disembodied limbs all pointed inwards to the door, two mutilated bodies flanking the doorway. The bloodshed lead to this place. Emma stopped at the doorway, smeared in blood. She drew her sword.

And, Ronan at her bloodied heels, walked into the shadowed gambling emporium.

It was carnage. It was awful, desperate carnage. The heat of a summer day at noon, amplified by the large glass windows, created a heavy, rotting atmosphere in the emporium. Emma imagined that once, the gambling emporium must have looked almost beautiful- rich purple carpets were just visible, as were shining crystalline structures. A huge screen took up the far wall, and Emma supposed that in the real Capitol it held the odds of each tribute.

But now it was littered with bodies. Blood and gore stained the rich purple carpets, mixing with fabric to create a darker hue. Emma was horrified to recognise some of them from the bloodbath- the unseeing eyes of Chal Detria, his head once pierced by one of Ronan's spears, bored into her. Every head was turned to face an entrant to the building. Chal had been dead when Ronan had sent his spear through his skull, and so little blood had flowed from him when his arms had been hacked off his body.

Emma choked on the heavy, blood-drenched air. The huge screen, that should have contained the odds for every tribute, was covered in something else. Hoisted by paracord to hang from the wall-mounted screen, his arms raised as if beseeching the ceiling-covered heavens, extra arms tied to his torso in the same position, a long, jagged hole in the center of his skull, the District 1 Career Sheen Astara hung with eyes unseeing and boring into hers.

This was beyond glorifying destruction. This was celebrating it.

Behind them, a hovercraft picked up the remains of the bodies outside. It hovered a moment longer, rotors whipping and spreading the blood left on the ground, then took off again, leaving behind little trace of gore.

"It can't get inside," Ronan muttered. "It can't pick up any bodies that are outside. They must've dragged them inside- so they could-"

He trailed off, disgust thick in his voice.

"She." Emma said.

"What?"

_"She. _We know who this is."

"-Are you saying Anna did this?"

"Who else?" Her mouth was dry. Her breaths came in short gasps to avoid the worst of the rotting smell. "She did this. She-"

"We knew Sheen was dead." Ronan said, his voice hoarse but continuing inexorably in the face of the horrors in front of him. "But- Anna must have done this. Careers wouldn't do this but she was- she's _crazy_, she could do this."

Emma had seen many things in Games past and present. Blood and gore were part and parcel of the affair of the Hunger Games- it was what the Capitol hungered for, it was what they wanted. But this- this was mutilating dead bodies. This was dishonouring the dead. In most arenas this wouldn't be possible, the hovercrafts took care of that, but in an insular building-based arena like this one the hovercrafts could not reach inside to take any bodies someone might drag inside- that Anna had dragged inside.

Emma again missed the sea, but realised that with the pools of viscera at her feet she was as close as she might ever get again. She had to fight hard not to throw up.

Ronan shook his head. "She's been killing people and making them some sort of- tableau? Is that the word for this freaky shit? Is there any word for this?"

Emma closed her eyes, wanting to escape from the dead eyes watching them.

And then she heard the faint sound of cannon, and realised.

"Ronan," she said, turning sharply, sliding slightly on the bloodied carpets as she caught him by the shoulder. "Cannons have been going off for hours. When did the last one go off?"

"Uh, just now-"

"-Before that."

Ronan's eyebrows shot up. "A few minutes ago."

Emma swallowed. "She's on the move. She'll be coming back." And then the two of them were scrabbling for the bloodied door, escaping the carnage, out and away into the sunlit, blood-drenched streets of the fake Capitol.

Emma resolved as she ran that she would kill any tribute she met. It would be a greater mercy than leaving them to Anna's hands.

* * *

><p><em>Wow. I'm unsettled by my own imagery here, but in my defence I slightly ripped it from 'Hannibal' so that's probably why. I love Bryan Fuller's cinematography, what can I say? It really captures the dark tones needed for the psychological horror of Lecter's world.<em>

_And given we're a writing community I thought I might take this moment to also recommend the book 'Cause of Death: A Writer's Guide to Death, Murder and Forensic Medicine', by Keith Wilson (MD). It's basically my handbook for Jacquerie's deaths and injuries. Though I claim myself as reference for the superdislocation of that guy's leg back in Theon's volunteering chapter._

_But I digress. Thank you, as ever, for reading this far._


	44. Jacobim

_With thanks to Glassgift and AbbyCoraby123 for your reviews of the last chapter._

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><p><strong>Y 184-09-01 T 11:29:35<strong>

**Day 2**

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><p>"-And if you're just tuning in- why?" Caesar Flickerman said, his tone as chipper as ever. "I'm only joking, dear viewers- we'll take you through a recap of events since last night. And let me tell you, they're truly something-"<p>

The sunlight streaming through the windows finally woke him up where he lay. He at first wondered why his bed was so uncomfortable this morning, why the wall curved painfully against his back- but as he pushed against the wall and rolled onto his back, it became apparent which was up and which was down. He was lying on the floor, and cool at his side was the curved glass which covered the spiral staircase of his living room. Why was he here, of all places?

And then he noticed the sunlight streaming from the windows, and his pounding head, and he realised he could really care less about why he was there. He waved his hands loosely in the air, signalling the windows to darken their tint. A soft chime sounded, and the windows helpfully flicked up the time and the ambient temperature of the Capitol. Alec gave the windows an equally helpful middle finger, groaned, and turned over.

Directly into the glass fronting for the spiral staircase. Alec whined at the pain in his nose and fought the urge to throw up.

Last night had been, by all accounts, a success. Games night had attracted all manner of famous individuals to his and Ganymede's bar- Elysium had turned over record profits in a night from the sheer wealth of the inhabitants, and more importantly had generated almost as much publicity as the games itself. Counting the night as a success, Alec and Ganymede had shut the bar at 3, brought home several bottles of alcohol and several famous drinkers who didn't want the party to stop, and partied until the sun hit the sky. Alec remembered little, but the live feed of the bloodbath, as was mandated, had played throughout; snapshots of blood and flesh permeated frenzied dancing, flashing lights, the glint of wild, drunken eyes.

In the quiet, trashed living area, a man with short dark hair and a crushed black shirt groaned where he lay on a couch. Alec could recognise that groan without even thinking about it- he rolled back onto his stomach, forced himself into a seated position, and mostly crawled across the floor to the couch the other man was lying on. He sat back heavily against the armrest, absently trailing his fingers against the man's arm.

"Gany." Alec whisper-groaned. "I'm dying of a hangover. Get up and pamper me."

Ganymede Akahiro decided to honour this request by trying to cover up Alec's mouth.

"Stop talking."

Alec brushed away Ganymede's weak fingers. "Come on, I have worse hangovers than you."

"Cease the mouth noises." Or, at least, Alec assumed that was what Ganymede had said, because it was actually said as "see' th' mouuu - nois'ing".

"You know," Alec said, thinking back to a moment only a few weeks ago, "I think I'm one of the few people in the Capitol who could've understood that."

Ganymede, marginally more awake, now had enough motor co-ordination to pinch Alec's lips together. Alec laughed slightly, before grimacing as the action brought home his nausea.

"Seriously, I'm so hungover," Alec groaned.

"Same," came the response. It hadn't come from Ganymede.

The couple's heads snapped up with ridiculous speed, as a figure lying prostrate on the other couch stirred. The figure rubbed his head as he sat up, dragging his hands through his hair. "Damn, how much did I drink last night?"

Ganymede answered without hestitation. "Too much."

The man snorted. "Man, I don't even- you're the Elysium owners, right?"

"-Right." Alec said doubtfully. If this guy could barely remember who they were, then- _wait, _Alec thought. _Who is this guy?_

The man sat up, stretching- he seemed barely fazed by the debauchery of the night before, or the fact that he'd woken up in the apartment of strangers.

_Or, indeed_, Alec mused mutely as the man stood up, _the fact that he's barely wearing anything at all._ By Ganymede's awkward cough next to him, he had come to the same thought.

"Man," the partially-naked stranger said as he walked through their apartment. "That bloodbath was something, huh? Never thought I'd see the Careers disbanded."

"They- what?" Alec managed, struggling to match the stranger in the unspoken standing up contest. He couldn't understand what was going on. This guy stayed drunk in their apartment all night, ended up crashing on their couch in nothing but some underwear that _really_ left nothing to the imagination, and _still_ remembered what happened in the Games last night? Alec still wasn't sure if his tongue was still in his mouth this morning.

The strange man began making himself coffee. "Yeah, I mean! When Theon stabbed Sheen, and when Ronan and Emma ditched the group! I almost screamed, it was so dramatic! And when _Anna_- well! I don't need to tell you how _incredible_ that moment was!"

"Oh, you really could," Ganymede groaned into his hands as he sat up. Alec patted Ganymede on the shoulder sympathetically.

The man shook out his hair pensively as he waited for the coffee to percolate. "Yeah, I mean- the whole bit with it being the Capitol was- weird."

"The what?" Alec groaned, looking up at the man.

"The Capitol!" Alec was told. By a voice that belonged neither to him, his boyfriend, or the mystery partially-naked man making coffee in his kitchenette. Alec and Ganymede looked up again, to see a young woman in a dressing gown padding from their bathroom to their kitchenette. Alec was pretty sure she was wearing his dressing gown. "You know? The arena being the whole Capitol in replica? It looked incredible. And when they did a wraparound of the arena layout- _wow_, am I right?"

"Probably," groaned Ganymede, finally finding enough energy to stand. "I'm sorry, I really am, but-"

"Oh, you guys are awake!" Trilled another woman as she trailed behind the woman in Alec's dressing gown.

Alec gave up trying to stand up and opted instead for slumping down into a seated position on the red-and-black couch. "How many of you are there?" He whimpered.

"Sorry, babe?" The man asked.

Ganymede stumbled over to the coffee pot, and the mystery man poured him a mug. "Who are you guys?" Ganymede said without preamble.

"Oh!" The man said with a tone of surprise; albeit, to Alec's surprise, not affront. "I'm Cicero- Cicero Azoulay. I'm modelling for the Cinna Collection right now." He offered a hand to Ganymede, which went entirely unseen by him in favour of the coffee-filled mug in Cicero's other hand. One of the women giggled.

"He's so hot right now."

"Am I not hot all of the time?" Cicero quipped, sending the girl into uncontrollable giggles. The other woman, the older one wearing Alec's dressing gown, opted to answer next, sipping from her own coffee mug.

"Sabina Hernandez," she introduced herself. "I'm part of the Justice Department."

"What part?" Alec asked with detached curiosity.

"The part that I'm not allowed to tell you which part," she answered cryptically, returning to her coffee. Alec disliked evasive government workers on the best of days, but when he was hungover it was almost unbearable. The younger woman giggled again.

"And I'm Demeter Hansen," she introduced herself, sifting across the alcohol-littered worksurfaces for non-caffeinated drinks. "I'm one of the new stylists!"

"Oh, you poor dear," Cicero said, still apparently unaware he was mostly naked as he sipped his coffee. "Hopefully not District Seven? Those wretches didn't deserve to wear styled clothing if they were just going to rip it up."

"Oh, no, I'm a junior on District Eight," Demeter gushed, apparently unaware she was staring at Cicero, and mostly at his uncovered torso. "Shame what happened to the girl Resta, but it's nice to see Cesal's doing well! Although, I could tell you some things- that boy was a nightmare in prep-"

"-I don't think you'd be allowed to tell them those things, Miss Hansen," Sabina cut in as she sipped her coffee. "It's Games regulations, hon."

"Oh, right! Silly me," Demeter giggled, grabbing up a half-empty soda from the worksurface and experimentally sipping from it. "I always forget those."

"See that you don't," Sabina said. "I won't always be here to keep you on the straight and narrow." She inspected her coffee. "This is good. What Nine plantation is this from?"

Ganymede shrugged helplessly. "I, uh, we didn't check, whatever turned up in the shipment, you know."

Alec struggled upwards, standing for the first time this morning. "Okay, I think I'm missing something here. Why are you all here?"

Cicero frowned, seeming to notice at the same time the question was asked that he wasn't wearing anything but a flimsy pair of underwear. "Because you invited us?" The hungover model proceeded to inspect his own body's state of undress.

"Yeah, no, we get that," Ganymede sighed. "Why are you still here?"

Sabine answered this time. "Good coffee?"

Alec groaned, stumbling over to recieve his own cup of coffee. From his long experience with Ganymede, he could tell his boyfriend was considering how many ways he could kill the unwanted inhabitants of his apartment with only his coffee mug.

Demeter giggled. "Okay, look, I'm gonna go get changed into my after-party clothes. You don't mind if I use your bedroom, right?"

"Well-"

Demeter had already flounced into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. Cicero put down his coffee and went to the bathroom. "I think I left mine in here. I think. I'm not even sure where my party clothes are."

Ganymede and Alec were left with an apparently unrepentant Sabine sipping coffee in their kitchenette. Alec shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, I-"

"You're Alexander Taupe, right?" Sabine said, looking up at him sharply.

"-Yes?" Alec frowned. Something in Sabine's gaze went past the idle chatter of the previous few minutes.

"Hm." She sipped her coffee absently. "If I were you, I wouldn't be angling to keep making successes on your bar- at least, not with your face on the cover."

Alec's stomach fell into a pit, and he blanched. Ganymede flicked his eyes between his boyfriend and the woman from the Justice Department, wearing his clothes and drinking his coffee. "What are you saying?" Ganymede demanded, putting himself semi-unconsciously between the two other people in the room.

Sabine shrugged. "I won't say anything, not my place. But footage travels fast from Josiah Lyman's office, and we've all been put on standby. Just- if I were you, man, I wouldn't try to put yourself on anyone's radar."

Alec couldn't speak. His mouth was too dry. Thankfully, Ganymede spoke for him.

"What part of the Justice Department are you from?" Ganymede asked in a whisper. Sabine shrugged again, sipping at their coffee.

"Not my place to tell you. Senior enough to know these things," she replied. "This really is good coffee, you know. You must get it straight off the train."

Her eyes bored into Alec's. The silence between them stretched forever. And then she turned and walked into the bedroom after Demeter, and the apartment was silent and tense.

Behind them, however, a forgotten figure lying on the ground stirred from his place next to a littered mess of bottles.

"Holy _shit,"_ Haymitch Abernathy groaned on the ground. "Where the hell _am_ I?"

Alec collapsed onto a bar stool, cradling his coffee mug in his hands.

* * *

><p><em>Ah, holidays,, with their wonderful locations and their wifi that decides to cut out irrevocably halfway through the trip. Lovely. Did I say lovely? I mean soul crushing.<em>

_But in any case. I actually saw a Pacu this holiday, so that felt pretty important comapred to my recent discovery of their terrifying teeth._

_And this chapter? Was written on and off in an hour and an half, and I make no excuses for it. It does, yes, contain Zoolander references, because I'm awful. Was this where I imagined I'd take this chapter? No. But I figured a bit of comc relief after horrifying even myself with my imagery last chapter wouldn't go amiss. Hopefully you agree. And while this holds no real point, my image of Cicero is based off of Yassine Rahal, real life male model and terrifyingly good looking. This author's note is just becoming pointless now._

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	45. Cardinal

_With thanks to Katrace and Glassgift for your reviews of the last chapter._

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><p><strong>Y 184-09-01 T 13:07:21<strong>

**Day 2**

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><p>The sun was hot in the sky, unrelenting in its midday position for hours now. Quint walked on beneath the boiling light, through miles of city streets. The Inner City was monolithic marble, and the Outer City was a land of glass skyscrapers and glittering lights, but just beyond that- there was a utilitarian mess of buildings, squat and whitewashed, creating a labyrinthine mess of streets. Quint couldn't decide what these ugly, prefabricated buildings could be in the face of the relative beauty of the rest of the Capitol. At first he considered them to potentially be remnants of military outposts, perhaps from the city's founding, or the Dark Days- but they were flimsy, and looked like they wouldn't be able to stand up to any attack.<p>

Quint navigated through streets and past buildings- he knew he wanted to head northwest, to the reservoir, but two things hindered him. Without a line of sight to the reservoir itself, he had little means of finding his way through the streets, and any attempts to use the sun as a crude navigational tool would fall apart, as the sun had hovered overhead for hours now. As such, he walked in frustrating loops through the strange, ugly streets, made of tiny alleyways instead of wide streets. It was incongruous to the rest of the city, and it was beginning to unnerve him.

Finally, he reached an impasse- the alleyways had run out, and short, whitewashed buildings surrounded him, dark doors with numbers painted on them hemming him in on all sides. Quint gritted his teeth. With the unusual buildings surrounding him, numbered and cheaply built, he had wanted to leave navigation through the buildings as a last resort; but he had nothing left to do, if he wanted to drink anything today. Hitching his makeshift backpack, rubbing his thumb over the shaft of his spear, Quint pushed open the door with a whitewashed '3010' peeling from its plywood, and walked into the dark buildings.

The rooms were stark and utilitarian, and as a District 6 citizen that was saying something. Quint was poor, and he had provided for two on a single train mechanic's salary, but even he had owned a lightbulb, a basin, utilitarian plumbing. The basic necessities of living in a city district he had managed to supply for himself. But here- there was nothing. A small cot bed sat in the corner, a thin cotton sheet laid on top neatly. A box shelf was nailed to the wall. Nothing else was in the room. After a week of overwhelming, omnipresent decadence, it had normalised itself to Quint- the stark difference in these cheaply built, concrete-floored, empty buildings was profound, chilling. Quint held his spear a little tighter in his hand as he walked through the empty, lightless rooms.

Corridors and halls of bare concrete, and Quint found that now he could pick out cameras without having to look for them amongst the veneer of luxury that covered them up. Black mirrors reflected his distorted image back at him as he walked, tiny black eyes watching him like a thousand crawling insects. His footsteps echoed on the concrete.

He stopped, breathing in heavily, considering whether to take the stairs and find a vantage point or just try to exit the building quickly.

Footsteps still echoed on the concrete.

Quint's breath hitched in his throat, and he turned, turned again, his spear raised and his eyes wide as he tried to locate the sounds of movement echoing on the sound-amplifying surfaces. His heartbeat, however, was starting to drown out the sounds, and he couldn't make out the sound's origin over the increasing drumbeat of his chest, roaring blood in his ears. He turned, turned again.

And it was now that Quint heard the multiple sounds, the huffs of breath, eyes glinting under a single bare bulb.

And he realised the sounds were not human.

He stood still, his eyes wide, and he forced his lungs to still. His heartbeat still roared in his ears, but there was nothing he could do about that. He could hear a scraping of claws now on the concrete floor, and he itched to move the spear in his hand, to run, but he stayed still. _Think, Quint. That's what you do._

It was rare, but sometimes packs of wolves found their way into District 6 through the train tracks. Peacekeepers wouldn't bother with them until they came close to their own living quarters, so occasionally Quint had banded together with the citizens of his district to drive out the wolves. And while whatever in this hallway would be something twisted of the Capitol's making, it would still be an animal, and he still had a spear.

The cardinal rule was not to run. Whatever he did, he could not run. Putting his back to a predator was tantamount to admitting he was prey, and if he couldn't outrun a wolf he certainly couldn't outrun whatever was hiding just within the shadows. He had seen too many mutts in the Games, and they were always the nightmares of the Capitol's twisted mind.

Next was to consolidate what he had to face. His eyes were gradually accommodating to the darkness, and he could make out shadows on his left, several dark shapes that came up to just below his waist. The mutts were lupine in figure, but they were hulking messes of muscle, too dangerous to be natural. Their teeth were sharp, white, too large to be natural. They were dark-furred, but their eyes- their eyes were all white but for a tiny pinprick of black in the centre. The effect was terrifying.

But it meant they couldn't change their pupils to adjust to bright light. And Quint knew how to survive, but it was going to involve breaking the cardinal rule.

_Fuck it, _Quint thought as the largest mutt in front took a step forward. _Rules are made to be broken._ And in a single fluid movement, Quint swung his spear up and into the bare bulb over his head. Sparks flew, and as the mutts yelped and shied back from the exploding light Quint took to his feet and ran.

He had to get out of the building. He had bought himself precious seconds of time, but if they were mutts of the Capitol's creation then they would be aggressive and fast and baying for blood. He had to get into the sunlight, into an open space where he stood a chance against the mutts.

_What's the matter, Gamemakers? _He thought in the panicked recesses of his mind as he raced through concrete corridors._ Was everything getting too dull for you?_ His crate was tied onto his back with rags, and the poor excuse for a backpack slammed against his spine with every panicked step, the rhythm to which his terrified body followed. He could find no light. He could find no exit.

Behind him, a howl, and then footsteps, close, closer now, _too close._ He turned, swinging his spear around with him, and by luck more than skill sliced a thin line across the closest mutt's face. Blood streamed and the mutt screamed and its eyes, all white with just a prick of pupil, were narrowed in unsullied bloodlust. Quint swung again, instinct controlling him, and then the mutt had a mutilated face and nothing left to see with. It slumped to the floor, dead before it hit the concrete ground. Quint took off, the remaining mutts snapping at his heels, white eyes shining in the meagre light of the empty buildings.

He turned and twisted through the corridored building. It had seemed so much smaller outside, but in here it was a hive, unending, an eternal cage. He swung again and again as the mutts came too close, but he wasn't as lucky twice, and the mutts just dodged back as his spear came spinning backwards. Quint bought time in split seconds now, a dance of sprints and swings of a spear as he raced both the mutts and his own navigational skills to reach an exit.

It was luck and not skill that brought him to a plywood door, and he crashed through it without regard for opening it first. Plywood split and fractured against the door jamb as he slammed it open, and then there was a wide street and sunlight and Quint could not see in the light. Thankfully, neither could the mutts spilling out into the sunlight, and while they could smell him they were slowed enough for Quint to pick a direction and run. His eyes adjusted, but theirs could not, and they were slow to follow, clumsy despite their terrifying strength and huge teeth and claws. Quint came to the end of the wide street and turned, and now he was on another street, one that held buildings on one side and a wide, glittering reservoir on the other. Quint felt a surge of possessive pride. The Capitol had not stopped him from making the water. They had not stopped him, and the mutts were slow and his eyes had adjusted now and there was blood on his spear and adrenaline in his body and _god_ it felt good to fix things by blood as much as steel, to up his own odds by his own strength. He could not even hear the mutts now, they must have gotten distracted by something, they must-

"_HELP!"_

The call was instinctual, because no tribute in their right mind would scream for help. It was gutteral and loud, and now Quint could hear the howls of mutts on the chase.

Quint went cold.

They were his quarry to kill, and he had left them. He spun and sprinted, bloodied spear singing in his hands, his thirst and hunger all but forgotten in the baying of his mind for blood.

A tribute, small and thin, but otherwise impossible to discern behind the hulking bodies of the white-eyed mutts chasing them. In the light of day, Quint could see now that they were not purely lupine, not like the wolves he had imagined- their teeth were so large because they were not teeth, not really, they were blades. Someone had taken the muttations and literally, physically inserted into their gums blades for teeth. The mutts were bleeding, bloody foam at their mouth, because they were something that was not meant to be. Savage fury at the Capitol's nightmarish, cruel creation drew Quint's strength, and he slammed the spear into the side of a mutt hard enough to cut five inches into its side. The mutts were split now between him and the tribute, and Quint swung, blood staining the ground beneath his feet as he pushed his spear through the blade-festered mouth of the mutt closest to him. They were dying now, and Quint killed the last with a strength he had not realised he possessed, a passion he did not realise could come from killing, as he embedded the steel into the mutt's neck, down to the vertebrae.

There was silence and blood between Quint and the tribute. Quint panted heavily, his chest heaving, the roar of a different blood in his ears.

The tribute coughed awkwardly. "Thanks-"

And bloodlust exploded in Quint's mind and he lunged, embedding the spear into the tribute's side, his eyes wide and pupils pinpricked from savage, primal fury.

The tribute was almost silent this time as he gasped in pain. Quint's mind recoiled in horror as he stared at the tribute impaled on the end of his spear.

_Oh God,_ he thought as the tribute started to collapse on the ground._ Oh God, no._

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><p><em>When starting this SYOT, I had three big scenes in my head that I knew had to be in there. The Capitol being the arena was one. This is just starting the second. So I'm enjoying this a lot. I hope you are too.<em>

_Or- actually- probably not, right now._

_In any case, this would have been published yesterday but for whatever reason the website was too slow to work on yesterday. Damn you, ff dot net. But anyway._

_As ever, thank you for reading this far._


	46. Borealis

_With thanks to Glassgift for your review of the last chapter._

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><p>Cesal walked with an odd gait this afternoon- he stepped forward with little care to his body, tripping on every other step because he didn't notice his foot was dragging on the floor. After a day without sleep, food or water, his body felt unattached, weightless, as if he existed beyond the boundaries of his flesh. He was buoyed by- something, he wasn't sure what, but he was as positive as a tribute could possibly be, as he and Emil walked down the street.<p>

Judging by Emil's exhausted gait and expression, his ally did not share his buoyant mood.

"So when we get to the waterfront, what do you reckon next? Food? Shelter? You wanna keep moving or hide in a hole somewhere?"

"Believe me, I'm considering putting someone in a hole."

Cesal flashed his knife with feigned boredom, muscles tensed beneath his grey shirt. Emil sighed, gently batting at the air near Cesal's upper arm.

"I was joking, Cesal."

"Leave jokes to me, kid. At least I'm good at them."

"You're really not."

"Did you just insult my jokes? Did ya?" Cesal dodged in front of Emil, unable to hide the wild glint of amusement in his eyes. "Them's fighting talk," he said in an overwrought accent and a jaunty grin. Emil just rolled his eyes.

"I've made a lot of things in my time, never tried any of it, but whatever you're on, I want some."

"Just sunlight and sleep deprivation, kid."

"The key components of any good meal, I'm sure."

Cesal snorted. "You're a Twelve guy, the hell do you know about meals? I mean, I'm no Panem expert, but even I know you guys are starv-"

Cesal cut himself off, aware he had perhaps stepped over a line he shouldn't have crossed. Few citizens were proud of their District, but pointing out the poverty and starvation of Emil's people was certain to cause offence.

Emil, however, looked too exhausted to argue- he just sighed at length and shifted the heavy metal showerhead in his hand.

Cesal was concerned about the whole 'allies' thing; he'd be dumb if he wasn't. Emil had started this morning with the fact that Cesal wasn't psychologically in any state to kill anyone, and Cesal hadn't even been able to refute it. The fact of the matter was, ever since he had watched Dane Twill stabbed to death for protecting him, he couldn't keep himself under control during any violent action- it was always too close, always reminded him of what had happened, the blood and flesh in his hands. Back at home, with the Black Bands, where violence was not just normal but an eventuality, Cesal had found his hands shaking, his body betraying him; he had had to delegate anything potentially violent to people under him. The delegates just presumed he was lazy- Cutch Hassan had come to a different verdict.

Emil still remembered his volunteering for Cutch. He had figured it was for the same reason his hands shook.

He wasn't too far wrong.

Cesal trusted very few people, but those he did trust were reserved his unending loyalty. His parents weren't within that boundary, having been distant from his life ever since he joined the Black Bands. His siblings were reserved his trust, if only because they were all younger than him, and he felt bound to protect them using as much of his authority as he could. But his trust and his loyalty revolved around Cutch Hassan, his boss and his best friend. Cutch had tried to help when Dane Twill was stabbed; and when it was hopeless, he had dragged Cesal away from the kid's corpse, he had made sure he'd be alright.

Cutch had stolen a lot of sleeping pills for him when it became apparent Cesal couldn't sleep. He had never said a word to the angered Black Band superiors, wondering who had taken their stock. Cutch had risked his position and, most likely, his life, to keep his second-in-command from collapse. Cesal had always been the responsible one in his family, the one protecting his weak parents and his younger siblings- to have someone protecting him instead, when there were no family bonds, no reasons other than friendship; that had resonated with Cesal a lot more deeply than he'd ever admit.

So he had volunteered for Cutch, without even thinking about it, because if Cutch could pull his ass out of the fire then Cesal could sure as hell return the favour.

_And look where that moment of loyalty put you,_ his mind whispered traitorously. _Stuck in the Games, unable to sleep and unable to kill, with an ally from Twelve, of all places, who's carrying a weapon, who you just pissed off. What the hell chance do you stand? What are you even doing anymore?_

Cesal bit his lip, glancing over to Emil. Emil caught his gaze.

"What?" Emil asked.

"Uh. Sorry about that." Cesal said, making a vague gesture with his hand that meant nothing and conveyed less. "The, uh. The 'starving' jab. It was a bit of a dick move."

Emil shrugged. "We're allies, not friends."

Cesal looked away, not exactly comforted by the reminder that almost nothing remained of their precarious allied state.

"Yeah," he said, because there was nothing more to say, and they were coming closer to the waterfront now, if the distant rushing sound of water was anything to go by.

If they were right and this was the only source of water, they had to stay alert when around it. Any manner of tribute could be nearby.

Finally, they crossed onto a wide street. The tarmac disappeared here, fading into paving. The paving stones weren't the pale grey of the Inner City, nor the shining glassy slabs lining the walkways in the Outer City. These paving stones were glossy cerulean, designed for style and not substance. The war-torn Capitol had recovered where the Districts could not- even in this false, blocky version of the Capitol, the pride of a city that had forgotten the destruction of its land and its tumultuous past, the Dark Days that had created the system they knew. Where the Districts had never been able to heal from the wounds of their past, the Capitol had covered up their scars and hidden their pain and stepped into a stronger sense of being.

The buildings on the waterfront were not the all-glass of the Outer City, resplendent in light. Instead, lit by the glow of cerulean paving tiles, they were refreshingly and uniquely built, every one. Where the Inner City had slabs of marble and the Outer City had towers of glass, it didn't take much to see that the waterfront's buildings were for the rich and powerful. They were shorter, four storeys at the most, and built like individual houses, built with unique and differing characteristics.

Some adopted the glittering glass of the Outer City with curving windows and smooth angles, set with floor-to-ceiling windows and beautiful walkways descending from glossy balconies to the streets below. Some, however, held more of the Inner City in their design- chrome and marble replaced glass and steel, minimalist designs with small windows and multiple exits and sharp angles designed to disperse the weight from an impact. It was clear, then, that these would be in the real Capitol the homes of the rich and famous, those who could afford to live in their own house by the waterfront- be they citizens of the Outer City or government workers of the Inner City. Cesal took close notes of the houses that looked most secure, that had the most exits and the least windows.

Cerulean tiles turned to cobalt, and now they were upon the horizon the buildings had obscured for so long. Cesal and Emil stood for a second, observing the edge of the dome they were trapped in.

A wide expanse of glittering grey-blue formed the reservoir, washing in soft waves just a metre below the walkway, rushing against balconied concrete in a lazy effort to dash itself apart on the stone. It ended not so far out into the distance, where the train lines tracked the edge of the mountainous basin the Capitol and the waters were trapped in.

This, from what Cesal could tell, was the true point at which the arena ended.

Beyond this, there was a horizon, there were mountains, and there was a long expanse of rippling green land just outside the natural basin the Capitol sat in. But small details ruined the picture; the entire image was distorted, the rippling fields in the distance wrapping on the horizon in a way that was almost, but not quite, real. It was clear that whatever the horizon was beyond the reservoir was not real. Cesal looked down into the shining waters, licking his dry lips with his dry tongue.

"Okay," he said, spotting a stairway along the waterfront. "Let's see whether the Capitol's put any sharks in the water."

"I'll take my chances," Emil muttered with parched lips, jamming the showerhead back in the bag to leave his hands free for the sheet he then pulled from the pack. "If I have to fight the shark for its water, I'll do it."

"That's something I'd pay to see- you, punching a shark in the face," Cesal said, jittering anxiously, feeling dizzy at the prospect of water. It had only been a day since he had last drank anything, but he had been walking and running for half of that time, most of it in the sun and the heat of a thousand thousand glass panes amplifying that sun. Emil folded the sheet, again and again, before dipping it in the water.

"Hold your hands out," Emil said curtly. Cesal tentatively placed his knife in his belt, not liking feeling vulnerable before cupping his hands and holding them out. Emil lifted the folded sheet now laden with water draining through, and Cesal waited as long as he could stand and then lowered his head to the water in his hands, all fears of vulnerability abandoned in the pursuit of water. He drank, held his hands out, drank again. It wasn't the cleanest water Cesal had ever had, but it was the most he had ever needed it and he could barely bring himself to stop. Some sense of propriety or embarrassment, something, drove him to take the sheet, kneel to the water, and hold it out for Emil. The two of them were barely allies, but they were still allies, and Cesal might be a criminal but he was a gang member, and he understood the importance of taking care of your own.

The two of them alternated drinking for a while, but eventually they had to concede that their hands were poor replacements for drinking vessels. Cesal and Emil repacked the sodden sheet and climbed the stairs again, searching for somewhere to temporarily stay until they had the means to take water with them. Cesal navigated them back to one of the buildings with sharper angles, small windowed buildings with multiple exits. They reminded him of the safehouses of home, ones he had sat in as a kid with the windows barred, trading drugs and money through letterboxes. It almost felt warm, the familiarity of this practical building in this impractical, fake cityscape. Despite Emil's leanings to a large building that resembled a greenhouse, and could potentially contain plants, Cesal wasn't so interested in potential as he was what he could see. While he liked the idea of Emil making sleeping pills, he had little doubt that whatever Emil made wouldn't be for such tame use. He couldn't trust Emil's medical abilities, and unfortunately it was the only thing Emil was still useful for. If Cesal was psychologically still capable of jamming his knife into Emil's throat, he would, without hesitation.

He wondered whether Emil was considering the same thing.

He wondered if Emil could bring down his improvised club without so much as thinking about it.

"Okay, if we bed down for- _shit_." Cesal felt his belt for the knife that should be there, and found it wasn't anymore.

"What?" Emil asked, frowning as Cesal checked his jacket pockets anxiously.

"I've left my-" Cesal trailed off, feeling especially vulnerable near Emil with no weapon. "-My knife, it must've fell off when we came back from the waterfront. I'm gonna go-"

Cesal was already at the door when Emil called for him.

"What, alone?"

Cesal didn't want to be stuck without a weapon with Emil by his side- Emil might snatch up the knife, he might stab it in his-

Cesal cut himself off. It wasn't worth thinking about. He smiled quickly, opening the door. "Go look for some cups or something, I'll go get the knife. It's only about ten minutes away at most."

"This isn't a holiday, you know," Emil said. "This place is dangerous."

Cesal rolled his eyes, stifling the obvious, aggressive answer he could direct towards Emil. "So I'll scream if I need help. We're allies, not friends, so don't act like you care, go do something useful over there."

With that, he swept out of the door, closing it behind him, and walked back to the main road of cobalt tiles.

Alone for the first time in days, surrounded by a glittering ghost city, Cesal felt oddly at peace. Without the stress of Emil's presence, or the proximity of the Capitol's people, Cesal was, for once, at peace, without imminent threat.

Then he heard the growling.

He twisted round without thinking about it. What faced him were huge beasts, at least four rounding the corner, more muscle than form, with dark fur shining in the sunlight and all-white eyes shining with a core of black hatred deep in their milky depths.

The lead beast _growled_, and Cesal's hand went to his belt, but there was no knife there anymore.

His heart went to his throat and he couldn't breathe. He backed up and the beasts matched him and doubled it.

Then he backed up, faster, faster, and his sleep-deprived body stumbled and he was running but he was falling too, and he slammed to the ground, and the scream hit his lungs as he hit the ground.

"_HELP!"_

The beasts were coming too, fast, howling with the bloodlust, and their muscles moved under their coat and their teeth were so sharp, so sharp, they were /blades-

And then a whirling fury of grey and red came from the side, his spear twirling like a baton as he slammed it into one mutt's side, then another, and Cesal scrambled to his feet as the spinning, incoherent blur of steel cut down one beast and then another, killing them in a primal bloodlust as ancient as life itself. Then the final of the lupine creatures fell, its throat torn open by a spear, and the mystery tribute stood there, unrecognisable in the blood and anger, heaving in breaths, his eyes wide.

Cesal wasn't sure why the tribute had saved him, but he wasn't about to act ungrateful about the whole thing. He coughed awkwardly.

"Uh. Thanks-"

And the tribute snarled and jumped forwards, and Cesal felt something tear in his abdomen. He looked down.

A spear, running with rivulets of blood. Cesal's mind went cold as he saw how it had embedded itself in his side.

_Oh, _he thought.

And then he collapsed to his knees, blood running from his impaled body, flesh torn and ripped. Cesal should have felt pain, fear, but all he could think was how Dane Twill's sacrifice had been in vain.

_Oh, _he thought again, and his vision went dark.

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><p><em>Is Cesal dead? Is he not? All shall be revealed. Sometime.<em>

_I would've gotten this out earlier, but I'm preparing for my AS mocks on monday, and- well- this chapter felt like a mess. Still kind of is, I think. Ah well. I promised I wouldn't do more than cursory editing on my work in favour of getting it done. Maybe I'll return to it all after I'm finished and retrospectively edit it. But that's a thought for another day._

_I'll be a bit slower than usual while I'm doing my mock exams, but I'll be writing where I can. The next chapter's the one I'm excited to do, so I'm hopeful I can get it done as quickly as possible- maybe even for tomorrow, if revision permits! We'll see._

_Thank you, as ever, for reading this far- and for 100 reviews!_


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